


Remedy

by Nikoshinigami



Series: Two of Every Kind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A viral outbreak has caused the world to take doomsday precautions. While the best and brightest are locked away in the Ark, the rest of humanity has only death as a comfort to the pains of infection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [救赎](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8095351) by [AliceAmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceAmy/pseuds/AliceAmy)



John flinched as another body threw itself against the windscreen only to slide down the hood and disappear off front of the armored jeep. They barely felt the bump as they drove over it. Good suspension; heavy construction. They couldn't even hear the screaming above a muffle of noise like voices through water. Nightmares didn't need sound, though. Sight was enough to settle in John's nerves as a worse spectacle than any front-line battle he'd ever seen. These were Londoners, civilians, scared and desperate and willing to die for hope. Much as he wanted to look away, he couldn't bring himself to. He was luckier than them--not by design, simply by fate. He needed to remember that. Always.

"You should have come a week ago," Mycroft chided, not to John though he knew the man held him responsible for his brother's actions by proxy. His steely stare and thin-lipped grimace were directed solely towards Sherlock who seemed the only person in the vehicle remaining completely unaffected by the stirring chaos outside the car. Mycroft himself had beads of sweat along his brow, the top two buttons of his white dress shirt undone and black tie pulled loose from its knot to hang limp over the breast of his waistcoat. The summer months were not kind to well-dressed men in Burberry and Spencer Hart. It was the most disheveled John had ever seen the man. He embodied the whole of Britain in his own state of disrepair.

Sherlock couldn't have mirrored his brother any less. Even his curls seemed to have fallen into perfect alignment as he sat straight and with the utmost refinement, a proper seam pressed into his black jacket and trousers with even his buttons in a state of relaxed fit across his chest. He shrugged in disinterest, eyes watching through the tinted windows as palms slapped against the reinforced glass with the occasional smear of snot from a child's face. "I was busy," he said, metallic eyes reflecting only the instituted darkness from outside as the sun cast them in a shadow of men.

"Too busy to save your own life?" Mycroft had already had enough of his brother, anger bringing the red from his cheeks right down through his neck. "John," he half barked, centering him with his stare now as blame passed quickly.

John held his hands up as much in surrender as in an attempt to pacify. "I got him packed and ready weeks ago. It's not my fault. Not his fault either, to be fair. It's not as though either of us could have foreseen a triple homici--"

Mycroft punched the leather seat, the only thing yet to make Sherlock jolt slightly beside him, a glance spared out the corner of his eyes towards his brother's deteriorating calm.

John took a deep breath, jaw clenched for the moment on a terse and childish argument--they brought out the worst in each other and at times in him--before exhaling through his nose on thoughts far less petty. "Mycroft, you're about to lock your brother underground in a big metal box for the rest of his life. You know he doesn't do well with change. As his doctor, I don't think there was anything wrong in one last case. We're still here; there's still plenty of time."

"As his _doctor_ you know very well you have both risked infection every second you have been among the public." Mycroft's temporary rise of anger had subsided almost completely, leaving behind little more than resigned disappointment. "As his _friend_ you decided it would be nice to have a bit more fun before joining us at the Ark. I should have had you both forcibly obtained from Baker Street the moment your clearance was approved."

Sherlock gave his 'I'd like to have seen you try' smirk then focused his eyes on John, his smile shifting just slightly to something far more appreciative. Mycroft was right, it had been stupid in many ways, but it had also been brilliant. One last mystery running through the streets, searching for answers, being free in the open air. John tried not to smile back, forcing a scowl which was far from convincing for either Holmes present. Mycroft rolled his eyes then sat back in mild defeat as their vehicle ran over another slight bump on the perfectly paved road.

It was better after the check points--for them anyway. Miles of buffer territory all patrolled by armed guards meant the worst was left at the outer gates where people begged to be given a chance. The soldiers all had guns. John flinched at the splatter of blood that masked the windows as the hollow sound of rounds fired echoed through the jeep. No one spoke. The world outside deserved far more than just a minute's silence and they held their tongues for one reason or another while the wind smeared the blood as they drove. 

It was hard to think of them as merciful deaths. Euthanasia of the infected had been in practice for months, all mater destroyed and even the ashes treated as potential bio-hazard. John had seen the bodies of those who feared the hospitals and died on their own and the agony of their features which betrayed nothing. Sherlock had deduced the infection in Molly. They never saw her again. People disappeared all the time and it was simply understood that it was for the best. There was no cure. Eradicate the infected and the infection goes with them, people consolidated into the image of the virus itself and seen as dangerous, expendable and unwanted. The ones begging for admittance weren't the ones who were sick, though. They had a chance if the government would grant them one. The only thing Britain had in surplus anymore were the bullets resting in the solders' magazines. Britain's Ark was full--the best, the brightest, what they believed society would require to regrow once vaccines could be developed and immunities programmed into the human genome. It was death by hand or death by virus for those left outside the specialty bunker. Even the guards who stood posted to let them pass were among those to be left behind. The dead ones were the lucky ones was so often the response. It was still hard to accept even in theory and harder still watching brain mater disperse from blood spray when traveling down the road at 50 kilometers an hour.

"A nanny state indeed," Sherlock mused, not entirely within the best realms of taste.

John cleared his throat against the weighted air with a slight tone of warning. "Guess it doesn't make the rich feel any better to know they can't buy their way to safety."

"You think influence doesn't factor into things?" Mycroft raised a brow at John with more than necessary accusation, his cold eyes colder still in the calm of the growing storm.

Sherlock, at least, was not about to let it slide. "You were the one who added my name to the list. Don't be petulant just because I made you add him as well." He shifted in his seat, the view from the window no longer interesting as only vacant landscape shifted into and out of sight. "You should be ashamed I even had to ask," he said, and though John winced internally at the thought of being left behind, he could understand the difference between the two situations quite easily. Sherlock was brilliant in a way only Mycroft could reproduce. Sherlock was well known for his abilities and mental prowess, having shown off a number of times where the media could fawn over and praise him. The Ark would not have a greater mind--with the spirit to pursue inquiries--than Sherlock in the realm of scientific, deductive reasoning. John was simply... John. They had much greater doctors on staff and far higher ranking military officials than him.

Mycroft shook his head. "John has the distinguished honor of being the only person in the whole of the Ark project whose justification for genetic retention in the human gene pool consists solely of the phrase 'Good moral character'."

"Something obviously lacking in the rest of us." Sherlock smiled, his argument having been won weeks before in the prerequisite battle for his own retention. "Don't worry about there being too many studs in your farm. For the betterment of mankind, John can have my share."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in mild disgust at his frankness while John tried hard not to visibly redden at the facts. He was rather sure it would not be anything near as glamorous as his admittedly childish mind made it out to be. The less thought or said the better. Rebuilding mankind was surely far behind the first step's goal of saving it.

From the outside, the Ark was all but invisible, flat earth void of grass or timber from where the trucks came and buried it. There was only a concrete tunnel--a ramp leading down into the structure below. It was probably the last time any one of them would see sunlight and yet through the tinted and smeared glass there was very little of it to recognize and say goodbye to. It was overly sentimental but hardly without justification. John did not so much as blink until their vehicle swooped into the tunnel's darkened corridor for the want of one last memory of the sun.

The corridor was longer than John expected and lit with long, horizontal lights on all sides. At first there was nothing but the headlight's view ahead and then, quite abruptly, enough hazmat teams to make John suspect perhaps they weren't quite out of this yet. The white suited teams stood waiting, plastic sheets and plastic-walled rooms erected outside concrete forms painted in black and yellow stripes with the triple crescent moons displayed clearly on every door. Caution. Biohazard. They were waiting for the car to stop, tension in their posture with the want to pounce. The armed guards flanking the doorway didn't exactly put the sight to ease.

"How unpleasant is this going to be?" John asked, unable to see much into the plastic rooms for all the white and camo-green in the way.

Mycroft slid his tie off his shoulders with an exhale of resignation. However he was supposed to take it, John didn't consider it a good sign.

The suited men and women opened the jeep doors, ushering them all out of the vehicle at their own pace. Soldier's slid in behind them as they were driven like cattle towards the well-lit bay of plastic walls and stations.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes," one of the faceless suits said, holding out a small palm device in his gloved hands. It looked like a Blackberry with a depression in the top holding a thin paper strip outwards. The readings on flat screen were too small to make any sense at a distance.

Mycroft held the middle finger of his left hand out as a separate attendant washed it in alcohol and took a small, spring loaded lancing device to his skin. One click and a pool of red blood sprang to the surface, Mycroft offering the red droplet to the waiting man. It only took a second. The green light flashing on the screen was an obvious sign, a pleasant chime an unnecessary but lighthearted addition to the 'all clear'. The suited man nodded and a door opened to the side to admit the British Government. Mycroft turned to John and Sherlock first, a forced smile pulling tight along his face.

"Once you're cleared you'll be received in the rooms before you to be washed, changed, and given a full physical. I'll have someone waiting for you on the other side to take you to your new rooms."

John looked at the plastic walls, now able to see the shower heads and interior separations within the boxy room. He grimaced. "All that in full view of everyone, hm?"

"Helps eliminate concerns of impropriety," Mycroft explained with no hint of sympathy. He smirked, genuinely amused this time, and walked off towards the open door to what John could only assume were his own executive accommodations for observing the private sanitation ritual of returning Ark citizens.

The pair of suited bodies stepped up to John, his turn chosen as next. John did as he'd observed Mycroft doing before him, his finger throbbing slightly from the pain of the prick while the hand-held device chirped and glowed green. They nodded towards the doors to the first see-through room. There was a small, inner chamber before the shower room where first the doors to the tunnel closed behind before the doors to the plastic room were opened ahead. John went through both sets with a growing sense of unease. There were cameras in the corners as well as attendants more or less standing by outside the rooms to observe and make sure he washed himself to their satisfaction. Even the army hadn't been this interested in his personal hygiene. John waved to the man standing outside the glass, wishing he had on the same bio-hazard suits as the ones outside so at least he could pretend perhaps he was undressing for a pretty lady. 

John's shirt was halfway over his head when the alarm sounded. He turned, letting his shirt fall as in seconds the suited attendants fell back and the armed soldier's circled in, the brief look of panic in Sherlock's eyes almost immediately obscured by the barrels of guns and squared, militant shoulders. John's brain froze in mid processing, his hand bumping against the door to try and open it with the action ineffective throughout his continued attempts. Sherlock stood with his hands raised, backing up towards the jeep as they herded him away from the decontamination zone.

It didn't make sense. John's brain refused to make the connections, hands balling into fists to pound on the thick walls as they continued to bar his access. "Wait, what are you doing? Put the guns down. Put the guns down now!" No one seemed to give a care about the noise he was making and John's pulse raced with the question as to whether the room was soundproof even though he could hear the others quite clearly. It made as much sense as anything else. He pounded harder, all but screaming. "What are you doing?! Hey! Hey, stop! Someone, please, you can't do that! He doesn't have it, I swear!" John riled against the wall, the plastic sheeting bouncing with his blows rather than breaking, beating back against him with every strike struck. 

The side door Mycroft had exited through opened again, the man himself pausing white at the door as he looked across the crowded entrance. John stopped, growing quiet with hope as Mycroft walked over, inspecting the readings from the hand-held device for himself. John could see the red of the screen. Mycroft handed it back to the attendant, casting only a sparing look towards Sherlock before giving a nod which set the soldier's moving.

"Take him outside first," Mycroft instructed, avoiding so much as a glance at John as he began to turn away.

It wasn't going to be like that. John took several steps back and ran at the wall, putting his shoulder into it. Again he bounced off, this time sliding to the ground with the reverb but not deterred in the slightest as he stood and tried again. "Don't! Mycroft, you son-of-a-bitch! He doesn't--I've been with him almost every second! It's a false positive, it has to be! I don't have it! He _can't_ have it! Test him again! Give him another test!"

Mycroft paused, head bowed as he hesitated outside the plastic room. "John-"

"They're going to kill him; _you're going to let them kill him!_ "

"John."

He ran into the wall again, thrown back off his feet without so much as a dent in the surface.

"John!" 

"You have to make them stop!" John held his aching shoulder, breath almost too erratic for speech but necessary and therefor forced. "Just take us back out to the gate! Give us that chance at least!"

Mycroft shook his head. "Us? John, you're in. You're cleared."

"Not without him. He wouldn't go without me, I'm not going without him." John's voice cracked with the frenzy in his chest, sounds he wasn't used to hearing himself make uttered with ease. "Just take us back to the gate," he begged, eyes darting for only a moment to be sure Sherlock was still in sight. The soldiers were loading him back into the jeep, doors slamming shut. "Please. _Please_ , Mycroft."

The older Holmes seemed to look through John rather than at him, frozen by the ice in his veins as he stood still to the sound of the jeep's engine firing up, wheels creaking as the vehicle rolled through its reverse.

He raised his hand and the engine died. John had already forgotten how to breath.

Someone in control somewhere opened the interior door and, once John had all but stumbled through, followed suit with opening up the outer. John tried to stand tall but his knees were liquified in terror. Mycroft didn't give him time to take so much as a step past the marked-off zone before grabbing his arm, head dipped low to rasp into his ear. "Take a handgun. Don't let him suffer. The Americans will be dropping bombs on all major cities globally. Get to the country. Satellites will remain operational and I retain my private line. Call me when you're ready to come back but I cannot promise you you will be let back in."

John nodded mutely, finding soldiers suddenly around him as a pistol fell to one hand and the keys to the jeep in the other. He didn't delay. John opened the back doors and let Sherlock out, holding the keys for him to take as he walked around to the passenger side using the body of the jeep to keep himself upright.

"Good moral character," one of the doctor's said, reading from a file clutched in her heavily protected hands.

John pretended not to hear as he fell into the vehicle and with one last shaking exhale slammed the car door shut.


	2. Chapter 2

John half expected the guards at the gate to be waiting with orders to kill. Maybe he'd caught Mycroft in a moment of fleeting sentiment quickly revoked and reasoned better of in the time it took them to drive out from the Ark towards the public streets. Maybe it wasn't just Mycroft who could give the orders. Maybe somehow the guards would just know and take it upon themselves to murder Sherlock for John's own sake and prosperity. He gripped the black leather to either side of his thighs to steady his hands as they rolled to a stop in front of the diamond-wire holding back the people literally dying to get in. Sherlock looked only mildly suspicious of the assault rifles in the solders' hands as barricades were lifted to admit the familiar black jeep. Leaving, apparently, wasn't the hard part. John still didn't so much as breath until Sherlock pressed down on the accelerator and drove them out to much fewer screams as they hit the familiar pavement and left.

By then it wasn't so much a matter of breathing as it was of complete physical and mental recovery. One would have thought of the two of them that _he_ had been the one being lead out to his death by a band of armed men. His hands were still griped by tremors fueled by panic and fed on fury. His mouth was so dry he doubted he'd ever be able to spit again. His neck and shoulders ached terribly from slamming into the shatter-proof walls and though they sat in silence in the jeep, John was sure walking would have again been a feat of pure adrenalin. He was too angry to settle into the expensive leather in any semblance of comfort. The only thing abnormal about Sherlock's presence in the car was his silence, however. He was ruffled but not enough to spark a rant or indignant retort. John shook his head at the way he drove in utter calm, not even his knuckles stretched by his grip on the wheel. Cool as a cucumber; steady as a rock. John swallowed against a dry throat and breathed loudly through his lips.

"You were going to let them kill you."

Sherlock's dark brows furrowed, his eyes unmoved from their stare at the road. "What was I supposed to do?" he asked, a touch too bitter for apathy. "I had exposed blood on my hand. As far as they were concerned, I possessed the deadliest weapon in the room."

"You were going to let them kill you."

"You weren't."

John laughed sarcastically, letting his head roll back in the perverted semblance of glee. "You didn't even demand a damn retest. You _knew_ \--" He shook his head, lips pursed white before they broke apart in anger. "How long have you known?" 

He watched Sherlock's nose wrinkle, eyes shifting quickly in his direction before switching back to the crowded street where cars filled the banks between curbs in a metal river of slowly churning confusion. "You think I'd have gone along to the Ark knowing I was infected?"

"I think that is exactly the kind of bullshit way you'd go about telling me." John had to look away before his anger and their slow progress made a scene of their exodus. There was no avoiding some rows, though. "So, what was it? You always wear your gloves out, you're always careful. Last minute cocaine fix before you spend the rest of your life with the most boring men and women on the planet?"

Sherlock's annoyance was evident in his voice. "I'm clean," he said.

John snorted with contempt. "So not a ' _no_ ' then."

"Do you want to check me?"

"I'm sure the crook of your arm looks perfect. Knowing you, you'd shoot up between your toes or somewhere else to hide-"

" _Do you want to check me?_ "

John started at the insistence in Sherlock's voice, the underlying forcefulness in his tone that said there had been no drug use, that he had not disobeyed doctor's orders and given in to vice at all let alone the unsafe practices thereof. Sherlock's hands were certainly tight along the steering wheel now, the veins in his hands made visible by his anger at John's doubt. Many things were easy for Sherlock to ignore or sweep aside as unimportant; John's opinion of him was not among them. John felt his anger slowly subside as he shook his head and turned away once more, paying attention instead to the street signs rather than the aqua lines under Sherlock's skin. "No. No, I don't need to check. Just... how did you get it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's breath was a soft sigh as his voice returned to the even tone of contemplation. "I don't know. I feel fine."

He also _looked_ fine to John who at the very least could still pride himself on being an avid observer of Sherlock Holmes' physical and mental states. Stage one of the disease was the least obvious but hardly invisible. The glassy eyes of a fever and uncoordinated movements from an impaired sense of balance were rarely missing in an infected individual within mere hours of contracting the virus. John had been watching over Sherlock's safety for days without any reason to believe he'd somehow failed. He'd even handed him the keys without any immediate fears or concerns that he might be hit with a sudden bout of vertigo and send them both crashing into storefronts. Nothing in John believed Sherlock was going to die in a matter of days except the part that had seen the red lights and heard the alarm and still hadn't fully recovered. John rubbed at his face, talking having helped lessen the strain in his body to some degree though his own head was aching from the stress of the day. "If you're fine, how the hell did you set that machine off?"

Sherlock shrugged with a shake of his head, offering little more than his own confusion which, even for the seasoned actor, seemed genuine in its restraint. "I don't know," he said again as he followed the signs towards the highway, shifting with slight discomfort in his seat for once as he chanced another gaze in John's direction. "In reference to your... response to the occurrence, though... thank you. And I'm sorry."

John breathed in deeply, jaw clenching on the words for what they acknowledged above his supporting Sherlock's own survival. Sherlock wasn't going to have his brains splattered on the dirt because John begged for a different solution. John wasn't going to have the opportunity to live without threat of infection or an alternative to struggling in a world facing the panic of illness and death for the very same reason. It was almost laughable how little he regretted it. Most decisions he made with Sherlock, even the ones he came to think better of, were all things he'd repeat even with the foresight to know better. It was always worth it in the end. But this wasn't the end. "Let's just go," he said, the leather seat creaking as he sat up from a discontent slouch.

"We are going. _Where_ we're going remains unspecified, though."

John sighed. "Sorry. This is my first pandemic. They don't really cover what to do in the event of an end-game health crisis in either med school or the army." He rubbed at his face again, adjusting the A/C vents in annoyance as the heat from the sun warmed his lap unavoidably. "This thing passes person to person so you've got to figure there are places out there that haven't yet been affected. Could just keep driving till we find a haven."

"Perhaps." Sherlock's voice hinted at some form of disagreement though the condescending sarcasm had decided not to join them in the conversation. He continued on amicably instead. "Villages are far more likely to maintain social constructs and hierarchies as their immediate governing forces are localized and familiar. Less chaos and panic to deal with. While city people stock up and resort to isolation, villages use their sense of community as a resource."

John waited for the ' _but_ ' to fall into his words but found it less than forthcoming. He blinked past the light surprise at perhaps having had the right idea first go. It would certainly be nice if it could really be that simple. "Okay. So we're agreed?"

"To an extent. Any village that has managed to avoid illness is not going to welcome newcomers. We would be met with resistance, possibly even violence. However, a small hamlet with at least a small, controlled outbreak would certainly welcome another medical man into the fold. You could quite easily barter for lodgings, food and other survival necessities for services rendered to the community."

John shook his head as a short spike of panic stabbed at him in the chest. "It's incurable. People don't need a doctor with this thing, they need a mortician. Furthermore, do you know what the infection rate is for doctors right now?"

"People still get sick in all the normal ways," Sherlock reminded him, the words pedestrian and yet somehow still serving as a decent reminder given the state of affairs. "People will always need doctors, John."

"I'll be dead in a month."

"We'll be dead in just as much time if we plan to carry on like nomads. What happens when the petrol runs out? Think suppliers are going to top off the stations? And how long do you expect we'll live if we camp out in the woods on our own and tackle this like survivalists? There are thousands of things in the world that could kill us and yet your greatest concern is dealing with the most obvious of them." Sherlock spared him a look of disapproval ripped straight from his brother's brow as the quintessential Holmes' scowl of begrudging superiority. His attention was never far removed from the road, though, with the currents of vehicles and wayward pedestrians swimming through their undulations of halted progress. "We cannot do this on our own," he said, and though he still maintained an authoritative tone, the words themselves were a vulnerability John was still having a difficult time coming to terms with.

John was terrified of the sickness. He'd seen the bodies covered in sores, viewed X-rays of pyothorax in advanced stages and corpses with a cause of death which in layman's terms translated simply to drowning in their own puss. He'd heard the gargled screams through Barts while they borrowed equipment for their case. So had Sherlock. Only Sherlock had also tested positive to a protein assessment not more than an hour past. John could not imagine the horror in that, even as they both reasoned the impossibility of infection within the known time frame. He could not imagine it and so did not mention it. It was best if they both let it go for now. There was nothing to be done either way.

As far as their options, Sherlock was dead right. They had both packed only the necessities under the assumption they would be living in hospitable accommodations. Outside their wardrobes there was only Sherlock's Stradivarius in excess. Even the jeep itself they'd been lent was more a thing of luxury than utility. John cleared his throat for lack of structure to his thoughts. "Look... let's just not open with 'Hello, this is medical doctor John Watson' and see what we can find, okay? They want to bring shotguns into the mess and run us out in a scare, by all means, list it as a selling point, but... if I don't have to be in a position to be exposed to this thing, I don't want to be. That goes for you too. The exposure thing--not exposure to _me_. You're not... let's just go with 'you're not' until... well, until you are."

"Understood," Sherlock said with a concealed swallow and quiet nod, merging over into the next lane as his mental atlas directed them in their travels. 

Maybe he knew a place. Maybe in his casework there had been mention of a village that suited his expectations of their survival plan. John didn't care to question so long as Sherlock seemed sure. There was far more to feel concern for than whether it was the A1 or the M4 he chose to steer them down. He leaned forward instead and turned the radio on to drive their thoughts perhaps someplace better than where they currently resided. It didn't matter what the song was so long as it ate up all the space between them like pink packing peanuts, securing them for a long ride without the jostle of broken thoughts and thwarted expectations.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock drove through the night. John had expected to stay awake with him, not believing for one second that his nerves would settle in the whirlwind of panic that described their situation, but found himself quite comfortably sedated by fear and anxiety not an hour after sunset with nothing but the sound of the radio to distract him. Some of his best nights' sleep had been on battle fields. It was sad in that way to be reminded of how well he flourished in adversity. Proud as he was of the ability to keep his whits about him, the underlying relief at having something to strive against was far beneath the type of man he'd always wanted to be. The Ark Project had been about survival but there was a reason he and Sherlock had waited as long as they had to go and join the rest of the chosen. They liked the chaos their lives would then be missing. John liked conflict. Both as a doctor and a solider he needed an adversary to fight against or something worth saving. Good men would only care about the latter but good men wanted peace on Earth; John loved the front lines of war. It was much easier to be a good man when there was no choice but to keep on fighting, left to persevere with no other options. He supposed that qualified them both as good men seeing that they had only death as an alternative now. All the same, John dreamed of a river banked in corpses and still the only thing that would count as a nightmare was Sherlock's pale body among them.

He woke up to the slam of the boot door, the car gently rocking with the hard close as he looked around with a startled heart drumming in his chest and a wet patch of drool moistening his chin. He quickly wiped it away as he sat up, catching a glimpse of Sherlock as he rounded the jeep towards the driver's side door. By the time Sherlock was seated back beside him, most of John's brain had caught up with him to the point that he recognized that they were outside a petrol station that was by all accounts deserted. Sherlock closed his door and set about fastening his safety belt. There were fountain drinks in the cup holders and a plastic bag of assorted edibles haphazardly tossed into the center console and somewhat spilling over onto the floorboards.

Sherlock turned the engine back on and took them out towards the frontage road running along the still busy highway. "Couldn't figure out the coffee maker," he said, lifting one of the large plastic cups from its holder to sip from the long straw. John followed suit, not at all disappointed to have something cold down his throat as the summer sun beat down through the windows. Not that a coffee would have gone amiss.

John sipped down his cola and rooted through the plastic bag, musing with appreciation as he pulled out a sausage roll that looked a bit stale but still alright. "No one working at the shop, then?" he asked amidst the crackle of plastic-wrap.

Sherlock arched a brow though his eyes remained focused ahead. "Would you carry on working at a petrol station if your livelihood no longer depended it?"

John shrugged, supposing not, and munched on his disappointing but adequate breakfast as they merged back into traffic and continued north. He wasn't sure what he expected to see but somehow this wasn't it. The sky was blue, people were obeying traffic laws, and even the radio was still playing--only songs but that was really all that mattered. It looked like a Sunday afternoon. Even glancing out the window towards the other cars showed only normal people driving along looking no more stressed than on any other road-trip. Where they all were going, John had no idea. Seeing as neither he nor Sherlock had a set destination, he wouldn't have been surprised if they were among the majority in that sense. There had been such panic in the streets of London with the entire city folding in under the weight of the worst of humanity's vices. The road seemed to carry none of that. John found it easy to relax into his seat and let the world pass by in stripes and polka-dots as he nibbled and sipped and ignored the mundane.

So this was how the known-world ended. It was disappointingly boring, really.

"So, no petrol station attendants, no trash collectors, no mailmen, no factory workers--"

Sherlock nodded, his straw squeaking against the plastic lid as he pushed it down with his teeth. "Money has no tangible value and therefor standard means of compensation are undervalued for the working classes. We're rather returned to a time in which Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs has come back into the forefront. We're right back down to the bottom rungs where safety and security are paramount and no failing financial institution is going to fuel an economy centered primitively on survival." He swallowed on a short sip then put the cup back down. "It will take some time for our current resources to be depleted, though. We'll lose energy and therefore refrigeration long before we're able to consume everything that has already been produced for human consumption. Then we're back to our roots as an agrarian society that trades goods and services for their equivalent value in other goods and services, building local governments and repeating history by virtue of human nature."

"So we go on, then," John said, nibbling on the last of his stale bread. "This isn't really the end."

Sherlock shrugged, his posture bordering on ridged as he pushed his shoulders back against the seat. "My model doesn't exactly account for the infection rate," he admitted, and grew much quieter in the customary silence as the music played quietly above the sound of the rolling road.

John bit his bottom lip and looked out the side window for the illusion of space between them, counting down to an appropriate pause that would allow for a change in conversation. It was awkward either way. "How are you feeling?" he asked, annoyed at how transparent even genuine concern sounded in the follow up.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. Of course he was. "John, I have absolutely no intention of infecting you. If I have any reason to believe that I pose a threat to your health, I will remove myself from your presence. I understand how the nature of my apparent infection calls for your medical inquires but it's not necessary. I know the signs and the symptoms. If it happens, I will tell you." 

John nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Your brother told me not to let you suffer."

"You're not going to kill me."

"If you're sick, I will."

Sherlock turned his head, eying John with a look John wasn't at all familiar with but worried him on some basic level, greatest of which was the length of his stare's absence from the road as it focused solely on him. John looked out at the road for him, the assurance of a straight lane and lulling traffic helping to calm his own fears of speeding collisions with immovable objects like concrete barriers. The silver gaze was far too piercing anyway. He had nearly opened his lips to tell Sherlock to remember the road when Sherlock's own voice filled the cabin instead with the ease of his face turned profile once more. "You will not be my murderer," he said simply.

John licked his lips before pressing them into a white line. "If there was any reason to have hope, any at all, I wouldn't dream of it. But it's not going to keep me up at night to help you in any way I can. I'd be glad to do it if it helped."

"It wouldn't." Sherlock frowned at the road as traffic began to back up, a line of break lights flashing up as they rolled slower and slower into a stop. There was an accident ahead. John could see several cars all smashed together in the right lane. It didn't look fatal from their vantage point but whoever they were, they were certainly stranded now outside the help of a good Samaritan. 

John sighed, looking away from the sight to give distance to the feeling in his chest that urged him to offer assistance. Sherlock's quick locking of the doors was enough to discourage such thoughts, an answer already given on the detective's opinion. Eager horns blared, though, as impatient people made lanes into disarray to try and get around the point of congestion. Sherlock slowly put the jeep into all wheel drive, eyes never leaving the spot on the road where the jumbled cars had caused issue. John crinkled his brow, "Sherlo--" and the squeal of tires and the crash of metal sounded again as John's attention flew back to the other side of the road. Cars were backing up in a panic, halted by those behind them, continuing to gun their engines with the high pitched squeal of burning rubber as push came to shove came to confusion and alarm.

Sherlock turned the wheel hard and took off up the incline to the side of the road where the grass embankment buried the road beneath the horizon. It was steep but the jeep powered over it, several vehicles behind them following suit only to roll back down and crash to the shoulder to additional horns and hysteria. John held on tight though it made no difference to the jeep's climb and control. He watched other cars roll, watched as people abandoned their vehicles and ran the opposite way down the road like salmon against the water's flow. Looking down at the crash as they carved their way around it, John thought he saw a person covered in blood, the accident apparently worse than he'd suspected. The clothes, he recalled as the sight of it left his window's view, had not had a spot of blood on them, though. The red, torn flesh couldn't have been from accident or injury--it was from illness. 

John jostled in his seat as Sherlock steered them back down onto the road on the other side of the crash and chaos, accelerator pushed down with a roar as the needle on the dash arched further than any traffic officer would have ever approved. Through the mirrors the jumble of cars was soon a distant memory, the lanes around them empty with the smell of smoke staining the inside of their noses. 

"At least I didn't spill your drink," Sherlock said, lifting his again with the straw to his peaked lips.

John nodded, raising his own in a forgotten toast as he sank back in relief with the slow deceleration of the jeep and the continuation of a peaceful journey.

\---

Sherlock was very good at breaking into petrol stations. For dinner they had prepackaged deli sandwiches and John helped himself to a case of beer. Together they figured out the workings of the coffee maker and filled thermoses for the road with hot beverages and cold ones alike. While Sherlock made a point of keeping jerrycans in the boot, John set about filling coolers with ice, beverages and foods to store in the back seat. He'd never thought of looting as a particularly fun activity but there was still a surprising amount of work involved in liberating items for their own survival. John tried to think practically and stocked up on the few medical supplies they carried such as athletic tape and antibiotic ointment. Mostly he found himself grabbing handfuls of candy bars. The child in him was thrilled.

Sherlock wouldn't allow for them to stay too long. He worried mostly about the jeep being stolen and so for the sacrifice of stationary comforts they zipped their flies and hit the road with more than enough to keep them going. Wherever they were going. John found he really didn't care. Still, it was a surprise when Sherlock pulled out from the petrol station and instead of returning to the highway, turned onto the surface streets and drove away from the main branch of Britain and down her tributaries. It was nice to have the change of scene. Driving was still boring, though, and he longed for the next break almost instantly. He'd heard almost every song on the radio he ever cared to hear.

"Fancy a game of Yes and No?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a breathy groan. Yes, it had come to that. "Oh, god.... Who starts?"

"I will. Your brain's probably driving you mad with nothing but other cars to look at," John said, and watched as Sherlock's smile said all it needed to on the state of his mental calamity. John gave it a quick thought, trying not to be obvious as sometimes Sherlock could guess outright based solely on the turn of his chin, and nodded once the proper thing came to mind. "Okay, I'm ready."

"Is it a person?"

John scowled with a shake of his head. "Yes."

"Someone I know?"

"Yes."

"Are they dead?"

John opened his mouth then found the word lost for a moment. Were they? He hadn't really kept up on those sorts of things. People died so often or simply went 'missing' without much cause for conversation. It made him curious as to when he'd become so heartless as to not even know if someone he'd known for years was alive. "I don't know," he admitted with the purse of his lips. "Maybe I should pick something else."

Sherlock cast a quick glance in his direction then resumed his road vigilance. "Self inflicted. His children and himself."

" _Jesus_."

"They were infected. He wasn't."

John ran a hand down his open mouth, trying not to let his mind create the scene behind his eyes with an empathetic cringe. "Okay, let's not.. let's not play with people. Just actual animals, vegetables and minerals," he advised above the ache now present in his chest for a friend unmourned.

Sherlock thought of a honey bee and it took John an embarrassing twelve questions to find the final answer. John countered with a street sign and it took Sherlock only four. John didn't find himself in a particularly creative mood though boredom required he press on with some form of entertainment. Even the view was no less repetitive than the ones before. At most he could watch storefronts change to reflect the more rural communities, well known franchises replaced with family-owned shops that looked to have existed for generations. He was thinking of an actual bread box when he saw the first empty lot with ashes and charred beams left to smolder in the evening sun. Sherlock slowed to a stop just outside a parking lot which looked to have once been a block of shops and domiciles, a grocer and cafe by the looks of the street-facing signs. All that remained were charred ruins of the wall studs and scorched bricks and mortar.

"No one bothered to fight this fire," Sherlock said, nodding towards the neglected ruins. "See how some of the boards are still white with char? It burned itself out."

John leaned across the cabin to get a better look out Sherlock's window, his seat-belt digging in against his shoulder. "Guess you have to figure the local force is among those with better things to do now," he said before his eyes fell upon the blackened skeleton laying across the broken brick wall. 

Sherlock pulled his lips back in a passing grimace and pressed the car to roll onwards. It was far from the last flame-kissed wreckage they saw. Sometimes the bodies even still had flesh to them. Like the plagues of old, they'd burned every last refuge the disease might cling to; ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Wherever they were going, John hoped it was still far away from here as Sherlock continued on down the farm roads that smelled of cinder and soot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; I've been moving. Best way to keep informed on any life delays which might cause a slow down in chapter posting is to watch my [tumblr profile](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

They were lucky.

The village of Newton Magna had suffered quite a few losses from an outbreak of the disease in the weeks and months of panic that had covered all of England. Among the losses were the men who made the local deliveries such as milk and mail, the village midwife and gossip, three working-class families and the good doctor who had been there to diagnose and treat them all. After the purge--a nice way of phrasing murder and arson--the disease had left the village completely.

Sherlock had been right about violent introductions. His deductions on their current state of wellness and overall sustainability were not met with praise or appreciation but rather shotgun barrels in far too steady of hands. But they needed a doctor. The appointed head was a gentleman by the name of Saul Grangerford who's son suffered from asthma and was himself diabetic. It almost wasn't so much a matter of convincing the village to let them in as it was matter of bartering not to be kidnapped. Grangerford took them in under his roof to keep John close at hand, attendant to his dietary needs in a failing supply of insulin, while Sherlock maintained the unpleasant suspicion he was retained solely as future collateral.

It was still a success, though. They slept in beds and ate meals at a table. The Grangerfords gave John their study to practice out of while the community brought in supplies that had been spared from the surgery's purge. Day one saw more cuts in need of stitches and remedies for bellyaches than John had seen in quite some time. It felt good to be needed. It felt very good indeed to know there were men and women whose jobs it was to patrol the streets and keep outsiders and infection beyond the village lands. They were protected. They were cared for. _This_ was their ark. 

Out of a sense of obligation, John continued to be an early riser. His first stop was always the kitchen to check on food stores and update his list of acceptable meals and ingredients for the missus of the house who saw to it that her husband's sugar intake remained balanced and controlled. He checked that his study had been undisturbed by the younger Grangerfords, young Buck and adolescent Sophie, who had their individual curiosities towards his practice or indeed in him. There was a certain amount of delicacy involved in avoiding one's proprietor's sixteen year old daughter when generally tied down under a shared roof. And, of course, he had to do so alone as his companion carried on by sleeping long into the afternoon and keeping to his own haunts with hardly a glance spared to the family who was all but ensuring their survival. John had made many an excuse for him in just the few days they'd been there: he was tired from the drive; he used to work nights and was used to sleeping in the day; he was depressed. The latter was less an excuse and far closer to an actual reason. A rural life might offer them survival but it could never offer Sherlock answers. They needed a university, a hospital, a place of scientific research for that which would have all the machines and equipment required to isolate and study whatever protein in his blood was similar to or truly was the viral strain that was wiping out humanity. Such places were population hot-spots; infection rates were high, the death toll higher. Sherlock had been in command of their destination and in the end he'd settled for Newton Magna, safety over answers with the promise of uncertainty. John wished he could argue the sense of it for Sherlock's sake. Still, symptoms started within hours of infection and yet Sherlock had been healthy for days. John almost preferred the ignorance, which gave him peace of mind, to the thoughts that warred somewhere between denial and mortal fear.

He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in question of one's own life and threat to others. Though there was little John could do or say to make it truly better, there were still some options worth entertaining.

Kitchen checked and study secured save for a few pocketed items, John took back up the stairs of the large house and helped himself to the room located next to his own. The white walls were adorned with hanging landscapes both painted and photographed which, in combination with the lace doyleys and side-table covers, gave the room a distinctly feminine touch despite the robin's egg blue wallpaper below the molded chair rail. It felt like a hotel even as it was meant to be a home. On the bed lay one exposed foot against the fitted sheet and a dark mop of wild hair against the pillowcase, soundless with breath as he carried on with only dreams for company. The sheers over the south-facing window did little against the morning sun already spilling in warmth as well as constant illumination from the clear blue skies. It made everything white burn hazy like watercolor bleeding through penciled outlines. Already the quilted blanket lay kicked off to the foot of the bed, most of it laying against the wood floor so only the sheet remained. It didn't bode well for the rest of the day. They were surely in store for a scorcher.

John unloaded his pocket before sitting down on a bare spot of bed, an aural thermometer kept against his palm even as his stethoscope remained tucked under his shirt to avoid suspicion. He'd hoped the shift of weight would bring Sherlock to consciousness but the man was stubborn even in his sleep. John sighed through his nose as he stroked tangled curls to tuck behind his ear, utility melting to comfort as he followed the path again. Sometimes Sherlock looked angry when he slept. Sometimes the description bordered on angelic. This morning it was the face of a schoolboy dunce with his mouth held ajar against a dampened pillow. John smirked, granting one last stroke through his dark hair to catch any last errant strand that might cause his instrument to tickle. 

Upon the slow slide of the plastic cone, Sherlock stirred, rolling his shoulder and ducking his head to give sympathy to the intruded upon orifice. John did not allow him to so easily dislodge it, though, and neither did Sherlock raise so much as a finger to do it himself. It wouldn't take long and even sleeping scientists had to be curious on some level.

The thermometer gave three beeps and to John's expected relief the numbers stopped within two whole digits. "Ninety-eight point six," he read out loud, and slid the instrument away. John held his friend's head with his empty hand and bent his lips to it in a thankful press, lips pursed white rather than extended to kiss the hair that still smelled of soap. And Sherlock let him.

Since the trigger of the red alarm they'd sat feet apart, no touch passing between them, no contact given between even Sherlock's flesh and the food he offered for John to eat. They'd never been particularly tactile, physical contact on an as-needed basis whether it was ' _hand me that_ ' or a controlling steer. It was hardly a thing they avoided, but one did not just sit in the jeep and hold their friend's hand to let them know it would be alright. Words were so often less effective than a hand to the shoulder in sympathy or a pat on the back to congratulate success. Anyone could use words but only special people could slip into that physical space that allowed for a pat on the knee instead of ' _I'm here for you_ '. There was no call for touch when sitting in a vehicle, no reason to initiate any sort of contact when packing supplies and filling petrol cans. It still wasn't necessary to touch Sherlock's hair and hug his head between his face and hands. But he knew Sherlock. He knew what fear and isolation looked like in the mask of a man who was used to ignoring both. Sherlock was afraid of his own body and all that John had the power to do was prove that he was not.

Sherlock hummed on a comfortable exhale, the sound vibrating in the hollow of John's own throat. John smirked, sitting up from his steep lean till his elbows no longer creased the linens. "Even if you do have it," he said. "You're not even stage one. Unless you've got plans to have sex with everyone left, right and center or start blood-letting in the kitchen, I say you come downstairs and maybe give me a hand getting a decent surgery put together." 

Sherlock smiled with silent laughter as he turned his face into the pillow. "Am I your patient now, John?" he asked, sleep slowly rising from his back in the tension of daylight.

"Nah." John ruffled his hair as he stood, rolling the thermometer back into his pocket to be secreted downstairs once more. "You're my friend."

\--

It was nice to not be the only stranger at the breakfast table again. There was a certain unease about sitting among someone else's family, listening to conversations normally spoken in confidence in the intimate setting of home. Mr. Grangerford had very little reservation in carrying on as though John were one of the fold, like-minded or else easily swayed by the force of his opinion. John mostly tried to make sure to keep his mouth full during any pause that might lead to questions about what he thought or request his assured agreement. He never quite liked to play the sycophant but on his host's good graces John had few reservations with holding his tongue for a mute nod and a spoonful of beans. Sherlock, at the very least, could be counted on to say what John was thinking, even if it wasn't in the best of manners to do so. They couldn't _both_ be assholes, anyway. It was very nice indeed, though, to have someone there to share looks with from across the long wooden table which could easily seat eight but now hosted only four.

Mrs. Hillary Grangerford, seated beside John for the simple fact that they were both left handed, was a homely woman with dark brown hair patched in grey who smelled of lavender hand soap and lemongrass. There was an earthiness to her that John quite liked, really, even thought it seemed to come with the price of ignorance in certain fields. It was impressive for all the wrong reasons to find her uninformed as to what a carbohydrate was and yet John was sure it would be her books on homeopathy that would be the biggest aid to him in the future. It got a bit old reminding her that sweetness was not a gauge for the glycolic index but overall he found her rather charming if a bit on the quiet side.

Mr. Grangerford more than made up for that. Mustached and boisterous, John half thought him to be a character from a children's story as he laughed at his own remarks and took to beating against tables for emphasis. He was perhaps the most impassioned man John had ever met. When he was happy, he was exuberant; when he was angry, he was furious. He almost had Sherlock beat, truth be told, if not for the fact that Sherlock's skills as an actor at least allowed him to mimic restraint. John was pleased to have only seen Grangerford mad once in the few days they'd been there. It hadn't been a sight worth revisiting. Thick but still well fit for his grey age, he was perhaps one of the last men on Earth John would want to come to blows with in lacking the proper utilities to re-set his own jaw afterwards.

Neither Buck nor Sophie had deigned to dine with them this morning. John was sure it was for the best considering Sherlock's general temperament. It was two less pairs of eyes set to watch Sherlock play with his dry eggs and glare at the over-ripened tomatoes. It wasn't Michelin star cuisine but it was hardly worth the scrutiny. John gave his toes a stepping on under the table as a quiet warning to behave. Sherlock stabbed at his bare ankle with his toenails in retaliation. It was going to be one of those days already.

"Sherlock, was it?" Grangerford asked, mustache clinging slightly to his last bite of egg. "Funny name. Familiar though. Any reason why I should have heard it before?"

Sherlock shrugged, uncharacteristically demure. "Probably not," he said, bushel set wide before his light. He seemed disinterested in impressing their hosts with his famous intellect or tales of their adventures which may have been told even this far from the city. It was annoying in a way to have to downplay the better parts of their past. John understood though. They were outsiders; they weren't to be entirely trusted and all ills would be blamed on them first. Better to have Sherlock as an ace up the sleeve then lay all their cards out from the go.

Grangerford's knife squeaked against the ceramic plate as he ate. "Well, good to see you up and out of that room at any rate. I was beginning to think we'd let the plague in."

Sherlock smiled, thin lipped and acidic, while Grangerford laughed at his own attempted humor with his wife and John adding to the casual chorus of chuckles.

Sophie walked past the doorway, a blur out the corner of John's eyes that her father had been much quicker to see and decipher. "And where are you off to this morning?" he called, bringing the blur back into the doorway as the young girl stepped back between the arch of wooden columns, her short sundress and wide-brimmed hat an all-white flavor of juvenile sophistication.

Sophie gestured towards her dress with an audible eye-roll. "Church," she said.

"On a _Thursday_?"

She nodded, gently swinging the end of her skirt with her hand. "The vicar said every day is a holy day."

Grangerford scoffed, sitting back with his arms folded over his chest. "The vicar's an idiot," he announced with a voice of authority and no care to any contrary opinion.

Used to the display, Sophie shook her head and continued on her way, smiling at John as she went with a little wave of her fingers. 

Sherlock, for the first time since he'd joined them, seemed actually interested in what Mr. Grangerford was saying. John could read it in his body language from the slant of his shoulders to the turn of his chin. Sherlock had found an inconsistency with his observations, some intrigue in the dissonance. Perhaps a bit of life would come back to him through a harmless interrogation. So long as it remained harmless. He leaned aside to better see the man to his left. "That's a rather interesting sentiment for a man who keeps religious iconography is his study," he said, referring to the crucifix between the windows in the room where John now ran his rudimentary surgery. Man's study, man's decor--less likely for it to be put there for the benefit of the missus. "Most people tend to hold tighter to faith in a crisis."

Grangerford seemed somewhat impressed with his astuteness but made no comment on it, instead giving a warm chuckle as he let his fork ring against the plate as he set it down. "Oh, the Lord is my Shepard, make no mistake about that, but Shepherdson is exactly the sort of git you wish came down with the plague just to have the pleasure of putting a buckshot into his skull. The Lord sent the sickness because we're wicked and only the righteous will be saved? Tell that to Mrs. Hardgrove. Wasn't a more saintly woman in village. Took in animals, people, strays of all sorts. Charity was what she lived by and it was charity that killed her. That Shepherdson's nothing but a moron who takes the good book far too literally for my liking. Always has." He beat on the table in time with his impassioned speech, neck growing red as a sure sign of his frustration with the vicar. John made a mental note to ask about family history of high blood pressure the next they conversed on the older gentleman's health. Grangerford pounded on the table again, wide palm flat on the table as though it were the bible itself. "You can all be my witness--I said it now and you'll see me proven right--that false prophet is going to try and amass himself a harem for the godly work of repopulating the world like Noah himself."

Hillary went tense beside John, practically emanating anxiety like an odor as her eyes darted towards the empty archway. "I wish you wouldn't say such things," she said with muscles tight along her jaw. 

Grangerford either hadn't noticed or didn't much care that he was upsetting his wife. He at least seemed to understand her worry. "I'm telling you, I don't like Sophie spending any amount of time with them. They're the same people who thought you could pray away the plague if you were truly saved. You could hear the idiots who believed him _screaming_ in the night. Then suddenly the plague was a sign that the devil was in you, corrupting your flesh through the consumption of your soul. That's when the purge started. Cleansing fire. He's an absolute nutter."

"And people listen to him?" John asked, his professional opinion never favorable to faith healers or anyone who diagnosed a lack of religious conviction as a cause for sickness.

"Of course they do. He's the vicar; he's God's servant. He's got Sophie just as brainwashed as the rest of them. If he had his way, you and your friend here would have had some sort of dark ages trial by fire to prove yourselves worthy to stay."

"Everyone reacts to stress differently," Hillary said to the good vicar's credit, though she still remained just as tense and uncomfortable. "I think once we get some distance from all this, everything will calm down and be just as it was before."

"He was still a pretentious arse before," Grangerford reported as the final and most knowledgeable opinion on the topic. 

His wife frowned at him with a bitter scowl as she took up their plates and left the room for the kitchen while Grangerford himself huffed self-righteously and rose to the fanfare of his own grumbles and groans. "Women," he said, shaking his head as he strode away. 

It was nice indeed to not be the only stranger at the breakfast table again.


	5. Chapter 5

They traveled into the main square a little past noon with Hillary as their local guide. She had taken it upon herself to make sure they knew who everyone was--right down to their indiscretions--as introduction to the country ways of history and reputation as paramount character traits. John felt sure Sherlock would find a way to wiggle in a deduction or two, especially when facts were little more than gossip and he had an eye to know better about the state of the Loftus marriage by no more than the creak of the front gate. Sherlock seemed half tempted to play mute and smiled a lot instead--not the smile John knew but the one he'd half forgotten that used to be the only one that graced his face for public displays. Plastic, empty, skin stretched over teeth and intent. The automaton was smiling today and while probably for the best that he continued to put on airs of being 'normal', John found he hated it. 

It was every bit the scorcher John had predicted. Even with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his plaid buttondown unbuttoned by three, the deserted streets of Newton Magna were an uncomfortable path to walk midday. It was a waste of petrol to drive, though, and not worth the expense from their tank or reserves. Regardless, it was good to see their new home at a slow pace where they could each take in the details and summation of their quintessential village home. I was charming, really--everything a country village was supposed to be if one overlooked the charred remains of houses and shops that left blackened dents in the skyline between the fields of wildflowers and a thick line of trees to the east. It was easy to see that most people took a fair bit of pride in their gardens with a floral bouquet of colors and smells the likes of which John had only entertained on holiday. Even as a child he'd spent most of his time in the city. It was what home looked like, smelled like. Close to the rubble where the odors of burnt petrol rose into the air he could imagine himself standing in a place he might belong. Despite intentions, though, Newton Magna was still not at all what he thought of when he pictured 'home' and a future. The only thing that seemed to be exactly where it was supposed to be was Sherlock at his side though even then his disguise of false normalcy caused a shudder of discontent. 

John scuffed his brown shoes against the gravel as they walked down along the row of houses--all white plaster and brown beams with cobble accents and tarp repairs on those with thatch roofs with smoke stained side yards recently expanded. He saw faces in a few windows, a few hands drawing closed curtains after meeting his blue eyes in a passing stare. John wasn't entirely sure what the population of the village was but counted in his head at least two people per house still left on its foundations. From the Grangerfords' estate to the fenced walkways of the village square he guessed somewhere around forty souls still living. From far outside the churchyard he could hear quite a number of them singing hymns he could hum but never knew the words to. Forty-odd souls that needed him and perhaps many more who lived off the beaten path. One day he'd know all their names. One day he'd have a house on the road or find himself in a handed-down shack. It wasn't really all that comforting a certainty despite the fact that it was everything they had hoped for. That Sherlock had hoped for him at any rate. As for Sherlock, John had no idea what to imagine. Gossip was one thing but Sherlock's profession was to be the personification of propaganda. Sherlock was in the business of knowing everyone else's business. Forty people left to lean on each other to get by did not need that particular set of skills. And of course Sherlock knew that; it was in everything he said and did--or more often in everything he didn't. Plastic smiles, an automation of public presentation based on observation and put before his audience in adherence with basic social understanding. John scowled and blamed the heat when Hillary cast him a questioning look. 

It was hard to pinpoint why exactly he felt so strongly a sense of repulsion at Sherlock's public behavior. Sherlock's crocodile tears and creaseless smiles were all part of the normal act he'd seen time and time again employed to get his way and manipulate those around him. John couldn't say he felt bad that Hillary was being put into a sense of security around a mask built on pretenses. It didn't matter at all if somehow Sherlock managed to convince every soul in town that he was one-of-the-guys or whatever other identity he was slowly carving out from observation. Sherlock could be whatever he wanted to be in the eyes of other people. But Sherlock had never cared enough about what other people thought to be anything less than irritating, impossible, argumentative, exasperating and inconsolable around those he wasn't immediately trying to get something from. There was something in the way he bowed to social acceptance that slid down John's spine like an ice cube. There was a sense of defeat in his careful demeanor. Despite whatever thoughts he may have had to the contrary in the past, John did not enjoy seeing Sherlock humbled to the point of being forced to walk the world like an average man.

The church doors were open, explaining the sounds carrying through the still air as they walked through the square which centered around the stone monument to faith. John glanced inside the doors, finding the expected assembly of the elderly along with quite a few men and women of about his own age as well. Sophie was easy enough to spot in her white sundress among the floral prints of the older women. As warm as it was in the sun, the patrons within looked even more miserable. John slowed to a stop on the broken pavement just as a man at the front rose his hands in the air, his black vestments stained darker still by the sweat of his body.

"It was the stranger's ways that tempted the Israelites and it will be strangers who threaten us now," said the man with grey in his mustache and old acne scars potted through his cheeks.

John frowned in thought as he hurried to reclaim the lost footsteps that set Sherlock and Hillary ahead as the woman continued her informative tour. 

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, more at the church than at John as he caught up in a few long strides. He looked very warm in his dark purple shirt. "The vicar and your husband. Always bad blood?" he asked, gloved hands clasped behind his back even as they baked inside the leather.

Mrs. Grangerford sighed with a nod, lips thin against a sigh. "My husband preferred the old vicar. It's public knowledge the two despise each other. For every attack on the church's power in the council, Shepherdson retaliates with an attack against the council in his sermon. It's a verbal feud which neither seems all that eager to end."

"Must put you in an interesting predicament. A choice between your husband and your faith?"

"I don't need the church to find peace in God," she told him, and the smile on her face in contrast with the blankness on Sherlock's awarded her some victory for it. "They're both good men, Mr. Holmes. In their own right. It's oil and water, that's all. It's simply in their nature to be contrary towards each other."

Sherlock's face pursed in contemplation then pulled once more into its toothy lie. He asked no more on the subject and cast his sight ahead though one could only guess at where his thoughts remained.

Hillary looked back towards the church for only a moment as they slowly approached a board of hanging notes and bulletins set along the path outside. John wouldn't have paid it much mind himself if not for her pause in step as she stayed to read from the array of papers. _Clothing drive - CANCELED. Fund raiser bake sale - CANCELED_. There were rows of pictures of smiling faces under the heading "IN LOVING MEMORY OF" where the lesser of John's strengths homed in on every child and tried to find cause to claim the photograph was old to spare himself the wince of empathy. Schools had always been a breeding ground for disease be it lice or chicken pox. It only took one child, one parent too busy to notice the symptoms before dropping Little Jimmy or Little Anna off at the school gates to wipe out an entire generation. Buck Grangerford was the youngest person in Newton Magna John had yet seen and he was twelve years old. The hand written notice asking for assistance in organizing an education system for children gave some hope that he was not truly the only one left: _Help Wanted - Teachers, Book Donations, Educated Adults for Tutoring Children in Life Skills and General Studies - See Mrs. Douglas._

It seemed to be the same notice that had caused Hillary to stop. She looked back towards the church again, her thumb worrying against the side of her fist. "Would either of you mind terribly if I popped in for a moment?" she asked, looking at neither of them. "I thought I recognized Mrs. Douglas's hat a moment ago."

"No, please, take as much time as you need." John pulled aside, standing closer to Sherlock's back as he circled around to put himself between them, enjoying a bit of shade in his shadow. "Honestly, don't hold back on our account. We can find our way back to the house if needed." 

Hillary nodded, her fingers still fidgeting slightly in their empty grasp. "Thank you, Dr. Watson. If you like, there's a nice path through the woods that will wind you back towards the house. Bit of shade might be nice." She gestured out between two shops where the line of sight included the waving grass of the field not but ten steps from the greenbelt's wall of trees and shrubbery. "Just keep a careful eye out. Sophie got bit by one of the dogs that'd gone a bit wild since Mrs. Hardgrove died. Nothing you two couldn't handle, though. And it's been nearly a month since then--all the beasts are probably long gone by now." 

The thick line of trees looked very inviting indeed. John gave all the nonverbal signs he need to to convince her they could see their way, rather keen to lose her now that the opportunity had presented itself. "Thank you," he said, and backed away to let it be as clear as any other goodbye. "Sounds like just what the doctor ordered, really. We'll see you later."

Hillary let her head bow and hurried towards the open church doors, the short heels on her shoes clomping along the concrete steps as she disappeared within.

Sherlock signed, wiping away the sweat on his brow with the cuff of his long sleeve. "Must you?" he asked, the meat of his inquiry hidden in his deductions.

Perhaps Sherlock was somehow observing him just as closely as John had been observing Sherlock. John found his own scowl puckered in a pout from hairline to chin. "Maybe. I mean, I could pretend this place is right up your alley but I'm not near the actor you are." John breathed through his nose, hands finding his pockets as he adopted a casual stance that was far outside the stiffness in his chest. "Look... just so we're absolutely clear, if you want to go, I'll grab the keys. I'm sure there are other places that are safe but have a bit more action to them than some religious/political tension."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Cambridge. Oxford."

Sherlock made a face, eyes nearly rolling. "Both plague infested." he said, looking out over the quiet village that remained empty save the voices in the chapel. A warm breeze blew over them, offering nothing in reprieve as they made their way slowly down the pavement once more. It was nice to hear a bit of birdsong. "You'll do well here," Sherlock said once more even as the sentiment grew tiresome in its repetition.

John scowled further. "Yeah, well, I'm not the only person you need to consider. I can't even believe I have to say this but you could stand to be a little more selfish in these matters. Feels like you're setting me up for a life without you."

"This really isn't the place for this discussion."

John blew out some steam on a deep exhale, nervous in his own scan of the street as he maintained as calm an exterior as possible. The Grangerford house was fit for little more than whispers and as said, the town streets were no better. John gave Sherlock's shirt sleeve a tug and inclined his head towards the shallow, forested area they had been indicated to take. With an understanding nod, the taller man took long steps towards the pathway worn through the grass and lined in creek-smoothed stones. At its mouth, the woods were thin with the path running close to the tall grass that backed into the yards of shops and houses. It didn't take long for the foliage to deepen on either side, however, where several feet of trees and greenery made natural halls around them to conceal and bear them through. John was grateful for the shade alone but the quiet was an excellent perk. "Private enough for you?" he asked, looking up to where the streams of sunlight cast strange shapes of highlight against Sherlock's face and hair.

Sherlock nodded. "Should you keep your voice down as you reprimand me, yes."

"I'm not... dammit, Sherlock. I took your temperature this morning, remember? You're fine. You're not dying."

"Based on only _some_ of the evidence."

"Yeah, I could say the same for you." John rubbed at his cheeks, perspiration making his skin sting and itch while the breeze kicked up the summer pollen. "Everything we know about this disease says you don't have it. You're basing a diagnosis on _one test_. I'm all for treating things with caution but caution is a long way from pyre stacking. And you know what? It's a self fulfilling prophecy. We act like you have it and you _will_ get it from some stupid mistake or another. Until I see you have a fever--no, not even then--until I see you are _broken out in pustules_ , I am not going to say with medical certainty that you have this and require any amount of quarantine or lesser consideration for our future."

Sherlock did not miss a beat, pausing along a tall birch as their conversation called a halt to their progress. "One test done at a facility boasting the greatest minds and scientific equipment our country has to offer. A test my brother was certain enough was infallible that he sanctioned my immediate termination."

John closed his mouth on a quick retort that he knew he'd only live to regret. The test alone meant nothing against the willingness Mycroft had shown to send Sherlock away in the company of a firing squad. Mycroft was a great many things and though 'heartless' was a valid complaint, when it came to Sherlock the man moved small mountains. If Mycroft trusted the results enough to dispatch with his beloved brother on the spot, Sherlock most certainly had the disease. Which only lead to more questions. "All the more reason why we should have gone to a hospital or university," John argued, ambiguity be damned were Sherlock's will to flourish subsided. "Maybe you're special, Sherlock. Immune or.. or just a carrier--I don't know."

"And what do you think happens when the scientific community discovers that I have been diagnosed with their end-world plague and persists without symptoms?" Sherlock raised a brow, his face betraying nothing as his tone dropped to one of stating the obvious. "The virus would be kinder. The virus at least would treat me as a human being."

John hadn't felt so stupid for a long time. It was part of what he liked about talking to Sherlock as all the little details of their days fell into perfect place to make all the better sense. "So this isn't just for my benefit then, is it? You're hiding here. You're not resigned to death at all."

"Am I normally?" Sherlock smiled slightly, seemingly pleased with John's concern. "I can assure you, John, I am as selfish as I have ever been. I'll leave my body to science when I am done with it and not a moment before."

"I'm glad.. I mean, ... I thought maybe you were giving up."

"No. No, far from it. I can't say there isn't an adjustment period but I think I'm doing well with accepting the reality of my situation." He smiled slightly, another hint of forced humor though he did not take the attempt far. It was a grim grin with more hope than present cause. But it was a promise as well. His moods were part of a journey, not his destination. Given more time to process his fate and the questions forced to go unanswered, things would be better. "You're not angry with me?" he asked, turning a questioning eye towards his companion. "I mean, I am potentially withholding vital clues from medical science."

John shook his head with nothing quite as forced lifting the corners of is lips. "I'm not that good a person, Sherlock. I may want to be, but... nah." 

Sherlock returned the smile, a chuckle teasing along his breath as he started walking again to the creak of dry leaves and broken twigs. It was a long walk ahead of them but in such good company it hardly mattered. John was happy enough in knowing that Sherlock was just as keen on living as John was for him that even the heat seemed a minor inconvenience. It was always better together. It always had been. 

" _Our_ future?" Sherlock echoed, causing John's cheeks to flush against more than just the summer sun.

"You know what I meant," he said, shoving against Sherlock's side to jostle the annoying man.

Their mutual laugh carried on ahead of them on a sweet smelling wind of grass and Hydrangea as they continued down the wooden path towards the manor of their dwelling.


	6. Chapter 6

It started with a fever and progressed quickly. The sores were unmistakable. John had reeled at the first sight, hands thrown under hot water that scalded his flesh through the suds of soap as his pulse raced in terror. Had he touched the sores? Had they seeped through the cloth he'd helped to roll back? The part of his mind not shutting down to nothing more than fight or flight reminded him that he was better than that, more careful than that, that he'd seen the raised bumps long before he recoiled and even had there been any contact, he had no open wounds on the hands he took great pains to sanitize. That didn't help his patient, though. There was no hiding this and no way of treatment. If word got out that infection had returned to Newton Magna, the entire Grangerford house would fall and every wall would burn to ash over their cold corpses. John was looking at his death in bloodshot, feverish eyes as Sophie Grangerford wept in the center of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up over her elbow to expose her blistered skin.

He'd expected pregnancy in her plea for discretion, some generalized panic in what her family would think if they found out rather than a genuine cause for alarm. John never for one second thought it could be this. _This_ required something Newton Magna no longer harbored--a current contagion. This was, by all accounts, impossible.

Sophie rolled her sleeves back down, cheeks red as tears streamed down them. "They're going to kill me," she said, a hiccup interrupting the last sound as her arms wrapped around to hold herself firm.

John swallowed hard. Yes; yes they were. "Sophie... I'm.. _so_ sorry."

She squeaked on a sob and John wished he had lied if only to not be left to stand so many feet apart with no recourse but to watch the young woman cry. Even if general practice didn't allow for it, the instinct to hold and to comfort was strong. He saw her every day. He was more or less a friend of her parents. They lived in the same house. He tried not to be sidetracked by the fear that sentiment brought with it, wondering what surfaces she'd touched that could pass along the virus. He clenched his hands into fists beside him as they idled with intermittent tremors. "How long has it been like this, Sophie?" he asked, keeping his voice down more so not to frighten her than in keeping to any promise.

Sophie sniffled, rubbing at her eyes. "They were there when I woke up this morning. I thought-" she hiccuped, the convulsion springing snot along her upper lip which she wiped on her wrist as she wept. "I thought people would think I had it so I... but I never thought I really did!" She surged forward for comfort and John fell back, banging his love handles against the counter as he threw himself several more feet away than she gained in her outreach. She pulled back, hugging herself once more as her cries escalated into wails. 

John concentrated on breathing evenly to settle his heartbeat as the pain in his side went unfelt along the rise in adrenalin. Everything in her room would need to be burned and the entire place put in perpetual quarantine. Every door she might have touched would have to be removed. Someone was going to have to kill her and the kinder option was certainly him when the alternatives were her own flesh and blood. If she hadn't already doomed them all to die.

He edged around the counter, keeping his eyes on her as she stood still in barely contained hysterics. There was nothing he could do for her, as he was sure she knew. But there was still something she could do for them. "How did you get it, Sophie?" he asked, the skin on the back of his neck growing tight with the thought of breathing in the same air.

She shook her head furiously. "I don't know," she said, sniffing back on snot as she shivered with fever. 

"Sophie, you can't help them by hiding them. Other people will get sick."

She shook her head again, back straight as she steeled herself with deep breaths. It took a few moments but she seemed to get herself composed, bottom lip still trembling while her arms held herself in comfort. "This is God's judgement," she said at last with a voice much stronger than before. "The vicar was right. This is punishment. We can't escape God's will."

John pursed his lips. "Sophie... sickness doesn't work that way. There are rules of contagion. We know how this thing spreads. You had to get it from someone. Who else is sick, Sophie?"

If she heard him, she chose instead to ignore him. Sinking to her knees, she clasped her hands in front of her heart and began to pray, lips moving on words muttered too quietly to be heard. John stood and watched only for so long as it took to realize she would tell him nothing then smashed her in the skull with a cast-iron frying pan left in the sink to soak. He rinsed it off then threw it in the bin before making his way back into the hall.

Sherlock was there. His tall shadow caused mild alarm for only a second before its characteristics brought forth relief instead. John's hands were steady but his knees were weak. He fell into the first chair he saw and exhaled shakily on the breath he'd long held since his fingers curled around the heavy handle.

Sherlock kept his distance, head cocked slightly with interest like a bird of prey observing his meal. "Is she dead?"

John shook his head, lips white between his teeth. "Unconscious. I think. I didn't check but... guess it doesn't matter."

Sherlock nodded, pacing along the rug with slow, purposeful steps. "We'll have to have our actions mapped out before her parents wake. Convincing the family of what has to be done is a small matter compared to what the village is to know."

John's head was swimming with the taste of bile, his thoughts tripping over the image of the praying young girl now laying on the floor. He felt perhaps he followed well enough, though, as Sherlock continued talking. 

"If anyone outside this house discovers Sophie contracted the virus, we'll all be considered among the infected and murdered. However, her regular church attendance means we have very little time to consider a believable alternate narrative. Then, of course, there's the matter of identifying who infected her and by what means. Do you see what we have here?"

"A case, yes, great, but can we spend maybe five minutes remembering the fact that I just smashed a teenager in the head with a blunt instrument?"

Sherlock stopped pacing, looking down at John with a blank stare before slowly marching back towards his chair. "Do you want me to see to her?" he asked, his voice respectfully lowered.

John shook his head, resting his face in his hands. "No. I don't want you going in there. I don't want _anyone_ going in there. I just... I needed her not to come out either."

Sherlock watched him, keeping his distance as he allowed for silence to fall. There were creaks in the floorboards within the silence, the rustle of leaves on the wind through an open window, the sounds of footsteps overhead and the running water of a shower. Silence was never really silent when even John's own pulse in his head boomed loudly against his eardrum. But there was no talking, at least, and no more thoughts as the ones he had left set themselves to filter categorically by means which would allow him to move on. "So much for 'do no harm'," he said with a chuckle, allowing humor to bring him levity as was so often his means of coping.

Sherlock nodded, face impassive though peaceful. "You're not a monster, John. Far from it."

John smiled with a wince, allowing himself to nod and accept the words to some degree even though his own heart screamed otherwise. John knew well his answer to the call to fight or flee. Didn't mean he was proud that his answer to the smeared snot and pus stained sleeves was to grab at the heaviest object within arm's reach and swing to contain it.

The family would come down soon, though. They'd understand. Even in their grief and horror they'd rally to the call to murder and assist in their daughter's end. That was what the world had come to. That was the humanity left to the human race that was worth protecting and saving. John felt sick with the knowledge of it and his part to play in the whole. He knew but he hadn't _known_. It was so much worse to be a part of it than it had ever been to observe with judgement.

"We have very little time, John," Sherlock reminded him, still quieted under John's stress.

The soldier breathed deep and pushed the doctor aside as he sat up, nodded firmly, and clasped his hands in his lap against the retreating tremors. "Doesn't do to lie about it when we know there is someone out there infecting other people. We need to figure out who else is sick before we work out a story for the Grangerfords."

Sherlock smiled slightly with the warmth of grace and turned back to his pacing as though nothing had stalled him. "We've been in the Grangerfords' company for over a week and have observed the family habits in that time. Sophie has two haunts and two haunts only: home and the church."

"Yes, but we've both seen the church. It's generally full of people. Even if someone in stage two was there, someone would have recognized it." John crinkled his brow against a headache brewing amongst clouded thoughts. "Wait, no, even more than that. They've been infection free for over a month but this disease kills in a matter of days. For it to still be active in the community, we're talking about a mass contagion of at least ten people back-to-back keeping the disease in circulation. There is no way a village this size could hide that."

"Agreed," Sherlock said, his left brow arched in interest. "So who infected Sophie Grangerford?"

John didn't know. He didn't even have the heart to guess. He heard the footsteps on the stairs, the distinctive click of short heels, and felt his breath disappear from his lungs. From his stance on the rug, Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the yet unseen addition and hurried to John's side, pulling him up from his chair and shoving him back towards the kitchen door. 

"Wha-?"

"Wait for me," Sherlock instructed, all but shoving John back through the kitchen door as he slammed it closed behind him, himself still on the side of the hall where his voice raised in a cheerful greeting to the inquisitive tone of Mrs. Grangerford's own. Whatever Sherlock was working on, it wasn't informing the family of the unfortunate morning reveal. John had half a mind to disobey and launch himself into the conversation he wasn't yet ready for but still should have been having. Half a mind was not enough to revolt against Sherlock, though. That required a majority vote which John was almost always set to lose. 

Sophie was still laid out on the floor as she'd crumpled, not having moved in the slightest. There was a thin line of blood on her face but nothing substantial. He thought he even saw her breathing. It shouldn't have been a comfort, they were going to kill her anyway, but he couldn't lie and say there wasn't a bit of peace to be had in not murdering a young girl mid-prayer. He'd hardly moved at all when Sherlock joined him, shouldering him aside as he stepped over the body--not to investigate it as he nearly shouted at him not to do, but to get to the refrigerator and extract from within it a carton of fresh eggs.

"We're making breakfast this morning," he said, grabbing too the package of bacon left over from the day before.

John glanced from the unconscious body to Sherlock and back again with the stutter of thoughts unformed. "We're making--there's a sick girl on the floor who one way or another is probably going to be the death of us all," he said, reminding him of what only minutes before had been the agreed upon focus.

Sherlock nodded, kicking closed the door to the fridge as he walked his ingredients to the counter. "A girl who has been a part of an infectionless community for months--or, at the very least, a community that has shown no signs of infection."

John glanced again at the girl, the adrenalin rushing through him no longer linked to his previous actions. "You think this could be connected to you. Her or someone here, they could be just like you," he voiced to the tingle of realization.

Sherlock shifted through pots and pans with a noisy, hollow clang as he knelt beside the dark wood cabinets to further his dutiful rummaging. "It would appear to be the most likely scenario given what we know," he said, finding at last what he was looking for as he stood and spun the wide pan in the air. "If it is, though, and I'm right about what I suspect of Mrs. Hardgrove, it would appear I only have another week or so to live."


	7. Chapter 7

It was a story not often told to the crackle of bacon and eggs and still John found himself shocked still and silent as he stood and listened to his best friend speak.

"There has only been one occasion on which blood was drawn due to injury in the time since the virus became known to us," Sherlock began, flipping the strips of thinly sliced pork belly in the pan. "I dismissed it as irrelevant due to the circumstances but there stands a possible precedent in the case of Sophie Grangerford by which both the random occurrence of her illness and the observed dormancy of my own can be explained. If I'm right, I'll be dead soon, but unfortunately that is the good news in this situation. If I'm right, the entire world is, for lack of a better word, fucked."

Always a fan of dramatics. John swallowed on his worry, eyes glancing down at the girl on the floor as he stepped closer to Sherlock and the spitting pork. "I was with you. I never noticed anything."

"And neither should you have. It wasn't a case. I snuck out late at night while you were sleeping. The wound was little more than a couple puncture marks." The detective frowned at nothing in particular then put the spatula down, rolling his eyes as he turned his face with annoyance. "You can stop glaring. I told you, I'm clean."

"You don't get to tell me what to do when the story starts with ' _I snuck out at night_ ' and ends with puncture wounds. I suggest you get to the part that doesn't make me want to scream at you for being the stupidest man I've ever met."

Sherlock sighed but took his spatula back in hand, accepting at least in part the speculations held against him in the context of his tale. "You remember the day that Molly dropped the rack of test tubes?" he asked, shifting the cooking meat once more. "I'm sure you do. I told her she was probably sick and then we never saw her again. She was dead--everyone who disappears is best presumed dead--but I... I went to her flat anyway. Just to be sure. It was pointlessly sentimental to want to see with my own eyes and so I thought better of telling you. As was to be expected, the flat still housed her things but there was nothing to suggest she'd been there for days. She'd left a mountain of cat food in a bowl by the sink with the faucet left drizzling into a bowl at the bottom. She'd left a window open as well but Toby was still there. I think I must have felt.. I don't know. But I thought taking Toby home would be the best thing to do. As I said, it wasn't my finest hour. So I tried to pick him up but I suppose having had a taste of freedom he felt my intentions were too intrusive. He bit me--broke the skin even. I didn't pursue the idea of cat fostering any further than that. I left him there and went home. Plate and kitchen roll."

John's brow wrinkled in confusion at the random words then jerked in memory of their task, his mind still falling behind by several paces as he took a plate from the cabinet and covered it in a few squares of kitchen roll. Sherlock nodded in thanks, moving the crinkled, crispy strips to sweat their grease into the white layers as he moved his hands to the eggs instead to fill the vacancy in his pan. It was painfully mundane in context--making breakfast over talk of death and disease. Sherlock tossed the eggshells in the sink as the whites sizzled in bacon fat with a rather glorious perfume of morning tradition wrapped in the oddity of it being him at the cooker.

"Newton Magna, like the rest of England, was dealing with its own viral outbreak around that same time. Mr. Grangerford told us a few of the details himself while disparaging over the vicar's treatment of the plague. One person he happened to mention was a Mrs. Hardgrove whom he said was the definition of charity. One of her many fine attributes was taking in stray animals. We know she died of the plague just as we know that her animals were left to run wild, one of them happening to bite Sophie on her walk home one day through the woods path."

John nodded his head more in habit than because he followed acutely. There were no words he wasn't familiar with, no terms or medical fallacies which made his mind revolt or his mouth run off. "You think-"

"It's certainly not unheard of for animals or insects to be carriers of disease. Being a cross-species infection may explain why it takes longer to become an active threat against the human immune system. No one questions how or when someone becomes infected when everyone's neighbor is dropping dead around them of the same illness but if I'm right, we're going to see more and more cases of spontaneous contagion in 'clean' areas from people who contracted it by other means. I can't test the hypothesis--I haven't the equipment for it--but if my own case follows Sophie's viral gestation pattern, we should have a reasonable conclusion."

"And a dead detective," John said, eyes glued to the frying whites of the eggs as they danced, edges going brown.

Sherlock shrugged his face, a nonchalant response to a fact that seemed too easily glossed over. "If animals can spread and preserve contagion, my death is the least of your worries."

"Think we should call Mycroft? Let him know your suspicions?"

"I'm certain if there is any basis in fact, they'll arrive at it on their own. All telling Mycroft will do is put him in a position to choose between England and myself." He scowled slightly, turning off the burner. "We all know how that pans out. I end up in jars and England gets a fresh specimen for research."

John wasn't sure he agreed but neither could the image ever escape his memory of the man turning his back on soldiers ready to kill his baby brother as a kindness. John sighed, rubbing at his face before grabbing another plate unasked. "So all this changes is that now I have a reason to be afraid again," he said, his fingers gripping the plate till the skin under his nails turned white. He laid it down carefully just to be sure he didn't throw it in a momentary absence of restraint.

Sherlock was watching him, grey eyes scanning and alert to every detail John had no walls to hide. He slid an egg onto the white ceramic, waiting as John pulled out several more to plate the simple meal for six--the unconscious mystery laying behind them on the tile included. "You know how to keep yourself safe," he said, voice low and calming in ways it should never have call to be. "You're a smart man, John. You'll be fine."

"I'm talking about you dying, you enormous git." Plate five boomed against the counter, a chip sailing off from the side as the impact showed far too much force in its delivery to the flat surface. "I'm talking about losing you to this. I have finally convinced myself that whatever you have it's not going to progress and then you come up with some wild hypothesis that just..." John lost the words. He pushed away from the counter, hands clenching uncomfortably for a fight they could not assist with. He saw Sophie on the floor and saw in her place the black curls of Sherlock's head matted in the blood from a less than fatal blow. And it was so easy, so simple, instinctive really in those moments of self preservation to imagine the heavy pan in his hand again. "Can we live in a world where you don't die, please?" he asked, his throat constricting slightly on all the thoughts that came behind the simplified words that spilled forth. "Just putting that out there. Can we not? Because I'm sorry but this world is worse than any nightmare I could ever dream up. And you being here with me is the only thing that makes it even remotely worth it."

Sherlock looked from the plate to John, casting his eyes even to Sophie for a moment before continuing with his domestic task, head lowered though his posture still spoke of his rueful nature. "Do you regret leaving the Ark?" he asked, missing the point entirely. Or purposefully. He put the frying pan in the sink where the other had been but left the water off as he waited for reply.

John wasn't sure what sort of answer such a stupid question required. Did he regret it? "Mycroft gave me a gun to shoot you with. You think I haven't understood since the moment that stupid alarm went off that my job is to dispose of your body? That has been made abundantly clear. That's my job; that's my sole purpose on Earth now. Because all that stuff--wife, kids, career-- _all_ that stuff is worth nothing now. All that's left is survival and us. 'Us' and fear of death are the only things that excuse murdering children, ignoring other people's needs, stealing and lying and doing everything I have ever sworn not to do based on that ' _good moral character_ ' that you told Queen and Country were necessary to preserve for the good of mankind." John gestured stiffly as he spoke, demanding Sherlock's attention in his words even as he allowed him to stand with his back to him, face hidden to the east and the rising sun through the windows. John felt stronger speaking to pointed scapula and a shirt collar that needed to be tucked down at the nape. He didn't need Sherlock to see him struggling to find the words that said that nothing was fine anymore. "I hate that you can't be you but for fuck's sake, I'm not even _me_. And you want to ask if I regret that what I did means we're both here now being miserable together? I wasn't ready to say goodbye then. I'm still not. Maybe you've been working on accepting that someday you'll end up like her but I haven't. I have been doing everything I can to deny that possibility even though I know what I'll have to do if I'm wrong. Because you are absolutely right, Sherlock: you dying is the easy part. You don't have to worry about anything after that. But I have no idea what I'm going to do if and when that day comes because I cannot even begin to consider what this life would be like without you. So just stop. Stop being okay with death. Your death. Stop acting like it won't really matter because you're not that stupid--no one could be. Just stop."

It was quiet without the sizzle of food or Sherlock mouthing off. John breathed deeply, annoyed at the tremble of each exhale as more than just anger seized against his chest. It didn't do so quietly--no, that was a luxury afforded only a select few who counted Sherlock among their numbers as those with the power to divorce themselves of feelings when it proved to be inconvenient. John couldn't just turn them off. He couldn't stop pitying himself just because it was embarrassing or put an end to fear in light of duty. He could push past it but he couldn't just forget he had a heart that hurt.

Face still cast away, Sherlock slowly nodded his head, chin sinking to his chest on the final bow as a sigh brought his shoulders to fall. 

The food was getting cold.

There was still an unconscious girl on the floor whose parents remained completely ignorant to the status of her well-being.

In the scheme of things that hadn't yet happened, there was still plenty to do in the world of those that had.

"We'll have to tell her parents soon," Sherlock said, straightening slowly as he shrugged off the weight of their silence. "We'll carry the plates out and set the table. You go to your study and get gloves, cloth, anything you require to safely handle her while I explain what has happened."

John shook his head at the suggested orders though he approached the counter and took up a few plates. He couldn't imagine anyone having much of an appetite after he got done explaining things. It was a shame to waste Sherlock's rare culinary venture on little more than satiating their short diversion. "Sure you can handle breaking the news?" he asked, feeling the chip of the plate against the pad of his thumb.

Sherlock smiled briefly, a sarcastic slip of self-deprecation lifting the corners of his lips. "I think I have a fair idea of what to expect in explaining uncomfortable facts to a person's loved ones."

John hadn't the nerve to ask that he be kind. Sherlock wasn't that stupid. No one was.


	8. Chapter 8

Mr. Grangerford grabbed his double barrel Boss & Co. from its case in the den and stormed with heavy steps towards the manor's front door. John had expected a certain degree of rash behavior in the news of their daughter's fate but nothing which would excuse the shotgun leveled at Sherlock's chest as the detective did his best to bar the man's way.

John grabbed at Mr. Grangerford's bicep, not wanting to fight over the weapon but certainly keen to dissuade him from its use. "It won't do any good!" he shouted, fingers curling in on the pleat of the man's ivory button down.

"He's killed her," the father stated with a calmness in his furry that was far more frightening than hysteria. 

John pulled at his arm again, free hand resting against the cool metal of the double barrels. "No one said this had anything to do with the vicar. You have absolutely no proof--you can't just run off killing people because you're upset."

From the other room, the sounds of Hillary's distressed moans carried like a child's cry, her face hidden in her hands as her body curled in around her heaving chest. Breakfast laid mostly untouched around her save for the fall of tears on the sunny egg's yoke. Sherlock had done just fine in telling them--there was no fault in sympathy either could judge by. But they were parents. Sophie was still just a girl, really--never to mature now into a woman. Hopes, expectations, anything left after the world went to hell was degraded only further in the coming loss of life. John felt for them, he truly did, but not so much as to ignore the gun or the murderous intent in the old man's eyes. 

Sherlock was at home with a gun pointed at him. A liquorish stick would have carried the same response from him as it bobbed before his chest. "You do have reason to fear the vicar, Mr. Grangerford, but it is not in the spread of illness," he said, eyes level with the other man's to command his full attention. "If he finds out about Sophie, your entire family could end up in a fear-fueled purge. If you're going to save your family, you're going to have to sit down and listen to me."

Grangerford's face was red, his eyes growing bloodshot as the tension in his jaw forced his temples to expand. "And just who are you to tell me what I should do?"

"I'm the most brilliant man this side of the Arc project," the least modest man in the world replied.

John nodded along, the mood hardly befitting humility as an invisible clock ticked down. "If anyone can save the rest of your family, it's him. Trust me, he's amazing." He carefully pushed down against the double barrels, trailing the weapon's sight down Sherlock's chest towards the wall to his left as the father's rage for one seemed to slowly melt into concern for the remaining. "Let's just put the gun down and hear him out, okay?" John advised.

With nearly glacial movement, Mr. Grangerford sided his weapon and took a far less aggressive stance away from the doors. The tension of grief still gripped tight to his shoulders like hooks tethered to his flesh from the far corners of the room. But the gun was down now. Madness was at the very least a few breaths further from the next heartbeat. John looked back at the weeping mother who had in her own presence of mind quieted in her husband's detainment. What had been a quiet room, then suddenly a violent storm, was again a den of almost-silence in which to impregnate sound advise and reason instead. 

John fidgeted with the remaining adrenalin that had surged in Grangerford's emotional explosion as he found himself a place to stand and listen as mediator. In some sick fashion he was enjoying this--not the situation but certainly the thrill. Best not to do the smile. Best to remember and to not meet Sherlock's stare or else they might both find some shared moment of relief in finding themselves back on solid footing--in their element once again. John stood at ease with his head held high while Sherlock could be seen out the corner of his eye taking center stage along an expensive looking rug.

"This won't be a difficult course of action but it will take cooperation," he began, ignoring Hillary for now as she wiped her eyes, keeping her husband as his prime focus of attention. "Sophie has to be believed to have left as explanation of her sudden disappearance but with her community ties that is unlikely. To that effect, she has to be taken against her will for anyone to believe in this story. You live far enough on the edge of town for it to be believed someone came in through the woods and took her while she walked. A few added details should flesh it out enough to make it believable."

"Such as?" the older man challenged.

Sherlock smiled just slightly. "There's a small chance queries will be made or a search party fashioned. Which means we can't dispose of her body on-sight or else it might be discovered. Believing you would just _let_ your daughter be taken is also stretching the imagination. Your diabetes makes you unsuited to the pursuit and Buck is far too young but there is no reason for anyone not to believe that I myself have gone to try and rescue her. John can speak very highly of my detective skills as he has already proven capable of doing. I shall take Sophie into the woods and as far from Newton Magna as possible before seeing that she is taken care of. I can hide far better than anyone can hunt me so no recourse you take will hamper my own progress. After a fair amount of time, I will return with a story that is respectful without trivial drama and you will request, of course, that the parameter of the village be better guarded to ensure nothing like this happens again. Questions?"

Grangerford shook his head, not nearly as impressed as perhaps the quick plan deserved, while John bit at the inside of his cheeks, annoyance brewing in his gut as it seemed Sherlock had taken not one word he'd said and committed it to memory let alone taken it to heart. Sherlock caught his gaze, though, and in response dug in his pocket until the flat of his mobile was brought to light against the palm of his hand, the black rectangle powered off but certainly present. "I won't be out of contact, of course. I turned it on long enough to check the area's reception. Not optimal but reasonably reliable. Should anything develop outside the parameters of my deductions, we can coordinate a response."

"And you're going alone because...?"

"Because if you and I both disappear, John, it will look far more like we took Mr. Grangerford for a fool than that we leapt at the opportunity to assist in reclaiming his daughter," he clarified, with far too much sense behind his words. "Being let back in Newton Magna once all is done could become an issue which would be best contested if one of us stayed behind. It's the most effective means of assisting the family without a complete forfeiture of our own safety."

John liked to think that Mr. Grangerford came to trust Sherlock in that blatant admission that their plot was not entirely altruistic. He was a man of action not unlike John or Sherlock themselves. His heavy nod of permission came with a grunt as he laid his shotgun on the dinning room table to the disturbance of glassware and half-folded napkins. They would do it their way--Sherlock's way. They would do it the smart way that didn't end in needless bloodshed and tears. Just the customary amount for a family dealing with plague. 

"I'll get you some supplies packed. Make sure you have what you need to stay safe." John said, pausing as he passed to give Hillary's soft mews a moment's sympathy. "She's in the kitchen. You can speak to her if you like. Just.. whatever you do, don't touch her," he offered, and the quick nod of her muted head gave him thanks for the consideration. John looked once more to Mr. Grangerford who's hand floated just above his wife's shoulder. They needed time alone just as John needed time to help pack. He ignored the rising sentiments and hurried towards his study, happy at least to have Sherlock on his heels rather than requiring to be pulled away.

He did not want him to go alone. And Sherlock knew that. John had considered his quiet acceptance in the kitchen to mean he understood but wondered now if it was closer to a simple bid for time as his mind worked out what had to be done against what John would rather be told. That was too often the case. Nothing, not even Sherlock's own safety, came above his logical deductions. And like so many times before, John could not think of a better way to handle things.

Sherlock leaned down close to John's ear as they walked, his body pressed to John's side as he leaned in to whisper. "I need for you to pack me anything you can to treat the sores on her body. Keeping out infection in paramount to her survival."

John knew he'd heard him but somehow the English language failed to communicate the things he expected to hear. "Her--What? Sherlo--"

"There is every reason to believe the virus has been inactive in her system for weeks which could have prepared her system for the fight." Sherlock had his elbow in his firm grip, almost dragging John towards the study he had already been walking towards willingly. "Give me the strongest antibiotics you can, pain killers, anything you can think of that will alleviate symptoms and encourage leukocytes."

John stumbled to walk with Sherlock so close to him, his steps crossing into John's own until they were tucked away with the door closed behind them. "You're going to experiment on a living person?" John asked, not actually surprised in the slightest. 

Sherlock nodded as he moved to the desk, arms braced against the expensive wood as his mind churned out thoughts somewhere near the levels of mania that John had missed. "Nothing I wouldn't subject myself to. Think about it, John. A vaccination is nothing more than the administration of an inactivated pathogen and that is exactly what it seems we're looking at here--a subject with prolonged exposure to an inactive pathogen despite the fact that it is now active. Are you willing to sentence her to death if there is even the slightest possibility she could survive this?"

Oh, but he was a _bastard_ to give John hope again. And John loved him a little bit for it. "You'll need a lot more in the ways of protection, then," he said, opening a drawer of salves and pills to remind himself of his stock and availability. Not much but it would have to be enough. They'd make it be enough. "Go grab some garbage bags--they'll make a decent enough poncho at any rate. I'll get gloves and the rest of it for you."

Sherlock smiled, his face alight with the granting of John's permission, the bestowal of his approval. John was the doctor, after all. If he was willing to put faith into Sherlock's idea, then there was something more to it than wishful thinking. Maybe. So much was mere speculation and coincidences grasped onto like fact in the absence of all but faith in Sherlock's mind. His eyes continued smiling even after his lips grew tired of the drawing their peaks. "I'm sorry you can't come with me," he said, producing his phone once more. "I'll steal a charger. Keep my mobile on at all times. Call me whenever you need or want. It won't be inopportune."

"And if you get sick?"

The detective frowned, the question one he perhaps hoped wouldn't be asked despite its obviousness. He'd foretold a week till he himself succumbed to the virus and propositions like that were not easily forgotten. "If I return with Sophie, it is my hope that the Grangerfords will allow me to be in your care here while I recover as well. If Sophie dies... I'll use what I have left in the way of supplies to care for myself and remain in hiding."

John pursed his lips, brows heavy over his dark blue eyes. "You're not doing it alone. Okay? That's not what I told myself would happen."

"Then I hope not to make a liar out of you, John. But if I can't save Sophie, it will be for the best that I stay away for my own safety as well as yours. Regardless, we'll be in touch. One way or another, I promise you will have answers, John. I will not let my fate be a mystery to you."

John nodded, finding some comfort in modern convenience at least, though his heart felt heavy and stomach sour. It was far from ideal but then so was everything else. He could argue with their lack of options but not in Sherlock's logic. "We'd better make sure you've got everything you need to nurse her to health, then. Or else I'm going to come find you. And you can't stop me."

Sherlock offered no argument to the resolute soldier. Instead he left to scavenge the manor's stores for bags and other plastic wears that could be re-purposed for medical supplies while John took out a small duffel from which many of his bottles had originated and began packing away the strongest prescriptions he had for Sherlock's purposes along with thermometers and other instruments to diagnose and follow up. He scribbled a few notes as he did so, making sure Sherlock had the best of instructions based on what John knew of the symptoms to come for Sophie Grangerford. He packed more than enough to last the handful of days the disease was supposed to span until proven fatal--more than enough for Sherlock's own use should it come to that. Enough to save and enough to kill. His hand paused with mild tremors as he failed to write the instructions for the mercy cocktail provided for in quantities for not one but two. There was no right way to word " _take these if you want to bring on death_ " that didn't in some way grant permission for murder or suicide. So much for the Hippocratic Oath indeed. A random overdose was far from merciful, though, and he had the knowledge to ensure that death was a relief and not simply further suffering. So he took a steady breath and wrote down the instructions as plainly as he would a prescription for administering cold medicine. " _To ensure death,_ " he began, and continued in bold writing until the close of: " _Recommended to be taken in the presence of a doctor. You don't get to go without saying goodbye._ " and with added foresight: " _Txts **don't** count._ "

It was funny in ways that weren't at all funny. Gallows humor. He signed the note " _Yours, John_ " and taped it to one of the bottles in the duffel before zipping it closed on a thick, metal slide that sounded more like a modern guillotine descending to a quick stop. Best not to think about it least it become all consuming. Best to ignore everything outside the realm of his influence. They were all at the edge of madness--some more at home with it than others. At least in ignorance there was survival and a careful blind eye to the monsters both without and within.

"Dad? Mum?" 

John looked up towards the closed door of the study, hearing Buck on the stairs as he came down late for breakfast with slow, halting steps towards the landing.

"Dad, why are there people coming up the drive with torches?"

John's blood froze as his body moved him towards the window, pulling back the cloth of the drapes to see the torch-bearing crowd in their slow march with a man in black vestments to lead them.

"Shepherdson!" Grangerford shouted with the thunder of footsteps, a blur in John's vision as a hand ripped him from the window in time with the slam of the front door. John stared wide eyed at a very pissed off Sherlock Holmes who took the duffel in his free hand as he pulled John quickly to follow.

"What's happened?!" John shouted, not in the least bit uninterested in following Sherlock's path. They walked through the hall where Grangerford's curses and shouts sounded as though they came from within rather than echoed from his stance on the porch. They broke through the kitchen door where, kneeling on the tiled floor, both Hillary and Sophie sat with eyes closed and a prayer murmured between them, the restrains forgone along with hopes to heal as a discarded cellphone rested on floor between them. John had several words for them but none which he had a change to utter as Sherlock pulled him through the back door where the jeep had been kept parked since they'd arrived. John jogged towards the passenger side as Sherlock opened the driver's, the sound of a shotgun firing sending the birds in the trees into the sky.

John ducked out of habit, looking around to be sure neither were under attach as another round broke through the air. " _Jesus!_ " he shouted, imagining Grangerford taking shots at the villagers with his double barrel Boss & Co..

Sherlock said nothing, too furious it seemed from the set of his jaw to say a word as he put the vehicle into drive before John had the time to so much as close his door. John cursed him but said nothing else as he strapped himself in in accordance to Sherlock's haste. 

They skidded around the corner of the house along the loose pebbles of the drive and made a break down the grass to swerve around the line of the fire-wielding faithful. John was sure they were going to run someone over. He looked out towards the house where he'd heard Grangerford making his last stand only to see the splatter of blood against the door and a faceless corpse on the ground. Beside it was one much younger with most of its head missing though it held tight to its father's defenses. The Grangerford's hadn't been the only one's to bring weapons. As Sherlock raced through the lawn, John watched sparks fly off the side of the armored, military-grade jeep as a line of men aimed their hunting rifles at them and fired with the intent to kill. John leaned forward, covering his head as Sherlock remained sat upright, his intense gaze focused only on the approaching turn which swerved them onto the main road where the shots continued to bounce off their bumper.

Sherlock took the residential streets at highway speeds, a few mailboxes missing and deep tread marks driven into the grassways on corners as they bolted past every silent road to break through the village barriers with only a narrow miss to the man stationed at their makeshift gates. 

There were no words. John took deep breaths, casting a glance through the jeep to check for broken glass as he tried to slowly pace his mind through the events which had taken such a quick turn for the worse. In the seat beside him was the duffel of medicine and in the vehicle little else but the two of them and the clothes on their backs added to their supplies. It seemed as though they'd lost everything in the hasty upheaval save for their lives and each other.

Through the mirrors John could see the smoke already rising above the trees in effigy to the Grangerfords and the village of Newton Magna's newest ashen plot.


	9. Chapter 9

The radio didn't work. John could find a few half-scrambled channels just outside the reach of the jeep's antenna but nothing discernible as music among the static hiss through their speakers. John's mobile had music on it but it also had been resting on the dresser in the Grangerford's home when they'd made their run from the quick and sudden carnage. Sherlock hadn't bothered with music on his but something was going right in the world at least to find the internet still up and running. It seemed a much smaller place, broken links from fallen servers almost as common as loading pages. Still, he found a place to stream music from and let the angry sounds fill the spaces between them--angry because anything else would be disingenuous and the cheerful voices of adolescents praising love, life and the future were akin to nails on a chalkboard after seeing the insides of a child's broken skull and the ruptured space where a face had been.

Nothing. They had almost nothing. No clothes but what they wore, even the laptop and violin left behind to burn--ancient and modern relics no different to the fires that had turned their prior plans to cinder, ash, and melted plastics. They could steal it all back, nothing irreplaceable had been lost outside the lives of their short-term companions, but the threat didn't lift just because they had torn down the streets and fled with all the haste they could muster. There remained a sense that they were still being pursued even as the logic to that point failed from the start. Logic was far from the ruler of John's heart, though. He had felt safe in the Grangerford home and relatively positive in his expectations of Newton Magna. For it to be over as quickly as a dream, startled away to the point where events seemed more like fantasy than reality, was as familiar as it was uncomfortable. An hour ago he'd watched Sherlock make breakfast, heard him speak to grieving parents, scowled over uncomfortable plots and avoided unnecessary arguments over well trod topics of concern. This wasn't the way either of their days were supposed to go. And it had only taken one phone call--maybe as simple as one text. John didn't know whether to be furious or not in all honesty. He didn't dislike the track despite the starting line.

Whether he consciously wanted to or not, his mind would not leave their parting case be--the case of which Grangerford had damned them all. The phone with mother and daughter made for compelling evidence but no one had been with Mr. Grangerford until the moment he charged out the front door with his shotgun in hand and son at his side. John almost wanted to believe it had been Grangerford's rage that had brought it all down on them but he knew better. It had been love. Not just a mother's love for her daughter but a love of family and humanity. Not everyone made the same choice when asked to sacrifice one life to save several. Sometimes it was all or nothing. If her daughter was doomed to die, if there was no escape from sickness, if it was only a matter of time before they all went the same way, better to go together than live a few more months as party to murder in self-service. He hated the death and threat to his and Sherlock's own lives but could not find room in his heart to blame her for it. No one asked to be persecuted or to live in a world that was overrun with fear. 

"I take you had bound her tightly?" Sherlock asked, his first interjection into conversation since they'd found the main road. 

Of course he'd deduced he'd been thinking about it. Who wouldn't be thinking about it after their mad exodus? "Tight as I felt comfortable tying her and then some. Wouldn't do to have her get loose and spread the contagion," John said, pausing the song now that it seemed opportune to speak. "Not that it's any real mystery but it had to have been Hillary. I mean, I can understand why she did it. I wish she hadn't but... I don't know. When the world's gone to hell, the only thing you have left are the people you care about. If you have to lose those... what's the point, yeah?"

Sherlock snorted, shaking his head with a heavy sigh and shifting of arrogant curls. "Hypocrite."

" _What?_ "

"Nothing."

"No, you just called me a hypocrite. I heard you." John sat back in his seat, leaning against the far side of the cradling cushion to properly scowl at his friend and his dismissively antagonistic comment. "The hell's that about?" he asked.

Sherlock gave John a short warning in an imperious glance which he plowed through on a single breath. "You tell me off for accepting death all the while you relish in your own ideals concerning the futility of life. You could try explaining why that's different but do we really need to engage in an argument I can already assure you you've lost?"

John felt this mouth grow dry, swallowing hard on a bitter pill that stuck hard and true beneath his sternum. "I never said it was _futile_ ," he tried to correct, though he would never be a fair enough wordsmith to battle out nuances with the world's only consulting know-it-all. "Just--look, just drop it, okay?"

Sherlock shrugged his brows, not appearing truly reminisce in the least as he looked back out on the road. It would be nice if they could have conversations that didn't somehow involve death--not that those they had prior to the plague had involved much in variation. But it was _Sherlock's_ death now. And that made a difference. A big difference. Not even Sherlock could praise the disease for its cleverness in destroying life as they knew it. There was no ingenious plot to uncover that left bodies like clues in its wake. There was just death for them. Medical science had the fight now meaning the two of them existed far outside the front lines of the battle ground. They were essentially just planting poppies. And if Sherlock died, even if it wasn't John himself who put him out of his misery, there would be a void in his life that nothing could ever fill. 

"Suppose I never did ask how many bullets are in that gun my brother gave you."

John snapped to attention, his spine straighter than a steel rod as his face puckered into a scowl. "You are a real piece of work. That is not what I meant and you know it. You really think I'd go and off myself just because you were gone?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "You sympathize with assisted suicide," he said, as though it were enough to incriminate him by thought alone.

That stirred a humorless laugh at least. John shook his head, letting the sour notes draw his thin lips numb against the pitiful remarks. "Oh, yes, brilliant. We've been shot at, lost nearly all of our things, we've no place to go, let's pile a fight on top of it! That'll improve our situation." 

"What situation?" Sherlock asked, his fingers curling in a wave pattern against the black leather wheel. "In case you haven't realized it, we're home, John. This vehicle is our home now. The road is our home. We're not on some trip, we are essentially sat in our den watching repeats of the scenery show."

"Well, I'll just make us a cuppa, then, shall I?" John spat back, never one to be out-sassed as Sherlock's cutting remarks undermined so much of what he already knew. "There has to be more to life than this, Sherlock. That is all I am saying. There has to be more than just surviving."

"I'm sure you'll find the ensuing struggle to be much more thrilling, then. We can't afford the risk of looking for a new village--not until we can establish that there is no threat of change to my condition. We'll have to stop and loot every service station we can find along the way and hope an abandoned home reveals itself or else circumstances ensuring my murder, should symptoms present, escalate immensely. We're on our own until time makes judgement of our pursuits and any infraction on that isolation could kill us both."

John watched him as he spoke, the image of people chasing them down for the kill perfectly preserved in his mind's eye to accompany the caution in his words. He'd never need to picture what it would be like if anyone ever found out why they weren't welcome in the Ark. He'd never have to imagine housewives and tradesmen hunting others down like beasts to be slaughtered, calling for the murder of children with the same guiltless passion one might see in the search for one lost. Agreeing with Sherlock didn't mean everything was fine, though. Accepting that they were nomads due to speculations on contagion patterns favored Sherlock's take on matters. Resistance was pointless but not without merit. "Well, I'm glad it's all about you again," he said, sinking into his seat in bitterness. "It's refreshing to say the least."

"Would you like me to pull over and let you out?" Sherlock asked, his annoyance bringing tenor to his usually rich baritone.

John took a bit of pride in that. "What part of me being here makes you think I don't want to be?" he asked, referencing the jeep, the road, everything around them that had ultimately been his choice to inhabit.

"The part that incessantly complains about everything within our control because the rest of you is terrified of everything that isn't."

John closed his eyes. He pulled his lips between his teeth, biting them into a thin white line that forced him not to lash out immediately in anger though the words were right there at the surface to take. So what? So what if Sherlock was right; so what if John was more scared than he could ever be angry or frustrated above the possibility of real contempt? So what if he was terrified? It was far better than being like Sherlock with stores of grace and determination under a quiet wall of-- _was he really demeaning that behavior?_ John took a deep breath, taking stock of his own whits in the wake of angry mobs and a legacy of despair. Was he really so upset that Sherlock wasn't falling apart? Did it matter in the slightest that everything they had left was built on hypothesis? No. No, not in the least. Only one thing truly mattered and above all it was the one thing he was powerless against. 

The alarms had never stopped ringing in the back of John's mind. Firing squad, angry mob, a body covered in sores--one way or another; sooner or later. There would be no peace until that day and no solace ever after.

John wasn't sure how long he'd been silent but his lack of retort had left Sherlock in an awkward pause that came with a questioning face hovering on the uncertainty of how much 'not good' he might have spoken. There were always lines drawn which Sherlock was destined to not just cross but take giant, tap-dancing steps over. This wasn't one of them. His face, however, seemed conflicted on that designation as he cleared his throat and frowned thoughtfully at the road. "I am grateful for your love for me, John," he said, eyes mostly hidden under the sweep of his bangs. "And I'm sorry I have failed to return to you some measure of your investment. I have tried."

John scowled, turning to look out the passenger window. "Now you're putting words in my mouth."

"What makes you think you needed to say it?"

Once more John was left with no reply and a mouth closed tight on his first response. He knew what Sherlock meant and yes, he did very much love his friend. He didn't like conversations like these, though. They always sounded too much like goodbye. "I know you're trying. And... maybe I have been difficult. So.. sorry," John said, watching Sherlock's reflection in the glass as the morning sun painted him clearly in echo. He looked down at Sherlock's phone and at the paused song held at one minute and forty-eight seconds on the faded screen. That was enough talking for him. Time to zone out and be happy little islands until the next service station rolled over the horizon to be pilfered through.

"Do you think we should kiss?"

Okay, so maybe he didn't know what Sherlock had meant by love after all. John was rather sure the whites of his eyes were showing though he kept his head down, staring at the phone now like an anchor to reality. It was generally John's role in the relationship to set misconceptions involving himself and Sherlock straight and while this wasn't even the first time he'd had to steer Sherlock out of friends-don't-do-that territory, correcting him on what dates were and why he wasn't welcome on them was quite a bit different from dealing with propositions for kissing. John cleared his throat, leaning forward to dial the air conditioning up. It was a bit too warm in the jeep now and surely it was doing things to Sherlock's funny brain. 

"You're joking right?" John asked. "No, I don't-- _why would we do that?_ "

Sherlock shrugged, not the least bit daunted by the tone in John's voice as he took a right onto another lonely road. "People do. I'm still healthy. You haven't had romantic interaction in a while."

"I survived Afghanistan without eying the other male soldiers, I'm sure I'll manage somehow through the apocalypse." There was officially a new winner in the ' _I can't believe I had this conversation_ ' race which, truth be told, had quite a lot of competition. Still, John tried to look anywhere but at Sherlock as the topic hang heavy in the air, made heavier still by his own inquisitiveness and unhampered by better thoughts in the absence of anything more pressing. "You'd want to?" he found himself asking on a whim, not really sure how to take the initial question--confession or curiosity? One never knew with Sherlock.

Sherlock's bottom lip protruded on a thoughtful mime. "I wouldn't _not_ want to," he said, eyes forward but somehow still looking back at John through their reflection. "Sometimes there is as much to be said in the acceptance as there is of the desire."

"This isn't one of those ' _I don't want to die a virgin_ ' things, is it? Because I really don't think--I mean--"

"No," Sherlock looked positively offended as he cast him a sideways glare. "Do you really think I'm the type to care?"

John shook his head, hands up in defense as he guarded against his impunity. "No. Which is why I--you know, nevermind." He sat back, hands smacking against his thighs as he signaled finality with his palms above his knees. "It doesn't matter. Forget I asked and I'll forget you asked."

Sherlock looked back between the road and John in short queries with his left brow arched. The way his normally full lips became thin was an easy sign he was far from done talking. John hoped he'd think better of a continued conversation but was slowly learning not to hope for much of anything these days. "Does it bother you?" the detective asked, words in before the music could be set to play again.

"What, you thinking about kissing me?" John shrugged even as his eyes half-rolled in their sockets. "It's weird, yeah. Things are always weird when they involve you, though. I'm used to it." Which, granted, he was. But while Sherlock might sometimes misunderstand something related to social graces and constructs, the man certainly knew how to interpret kisses and other physical engagements. And he'd asked about kissing John. Surely it wasn't reading too much into it to expect something like that had meaning for Sherlock. He'd chosen his words carefully and his follow up answers as well but people didn't just ask about kissing their friends on a whim without some sort of motive, surely. Sherlock wasn't the sort to get lonely or make suggestions that didn't work to his own schemes. It stood to reason that Sherlock... why was it still so hard to imagine Sherlock liking _anyone_ and yet much harder to disprove the notion of Sherlock somehow loving John? John scowled at the glove-box before giving in to the perpetuation of the query with one last thought of his own. "So if you don't _want_ to kiss me, why'd you asked me what I thought about it?"

"There has to be more to life, you said. I'm just agreeing with you."

John pursed his lips with the implications and stared out into space in front of him, eyes focused on nothing though his mind was sharply tuned. Sherlock never said what he felt, always much too careful to guard his heart for that, but he certainly made things clear enough to those who knew how to listen. 

When John thought about kissing another man, it wasn't a sense of revolution that came upon him but simple disinterest. He'd grown up with Harry, after all. He'd long abandoned the stigmas of homosexuality for acceptance, seeing it as one of several paths in life that was not his own to make but far outside his jurisdiction to care and command from others the same inclination as his own. He'd often been curious about Sherlock, though--not in the sense of what it would be like but more as an observer who retains a curiosity in regards to his subject matter. Accepting alternative sexualities had been much easier than imagining a person that felt no sexual impulses. Companionship was practically hardwired into the species after all. It was what John and Sherlock brought to each other and what made them friends despite the fact that they had very few shared interests outside the mutual joys of being together in times of uncertainty and stress. The end of the known world was right up their alley, really. It was a wonder they weren't enjoying themselves more.

Well, not really. The prospect of life without Sherlock was far bleaker than John had ever credited it with. Friends came and went--John had witnessed it many times in war in the most finite ways possible and through school days where people faded away like ghosts in memory when life-lines pulled in separate directions. People always came and went in life and it hadn't taken him long at all to simply come to grips with it as one of many sureties. But not for Sherlock. Even in a world in which everyone else he'd come to know was dead, Sherlock was not allowed to be mortal. He wasn't the final straw or the last thing left to him. He was the _only_ one. Had been since that January night years ago when the name he'd researched became the mind he held in adoration became the body he protected became the heart he swore was there even when all evidence pointed to a less human conclusion. He didn't fall into the same categories as other men. John didn't think twice about thinking he was beautiful in the light of a computer screen or that his eyes were perhaps the most magnetic things he'd ever been drawn towards. Sherlock was an enigmatic presence that existed outside all known categories of gender and humanity. Was it really any surprise that even if he'd never thought of kissing him, John only imagined himself wiping his own lips to tidy away any lingering wetness than in abhorrent disgust if Sherlock thought better of it and for whatever reason kissed him?

John wasn't made for loving men but one man hardly counted as more than an exceptional exception. "You said if there's a connection, between how Sophie got sick and you, that you'll probably get sick in about a week, yeah?" John asked, seemingly unconnected to their previous topic but far from the last words he'd prepared. "Well, I'll kiss you in two weeks, then. So, you know... don't get sick."

Sherlock sat up a little higher, spine curved as his shoulders rolled back. "I don't think illness is generally open to incentives," he said, though his lips curled slightly at the corners.

"Well, I'm not generally open to snogging my best friend. We all make concessions."

"I suppose." Sherlock let his chin drop as he signaled out of habit for the vehicle to turn left at a functional but rather pointless light. He was definitely smiling now. "Consider it a date, then. A fortnight from tonight."

John nodded, chuckling at the absurdity of the words as they changed somehow from inappropriate to intrinsically funny when said out loud. "I must be out of my mind," he said, trying to imagine such a thing as anything but awkward and yet finding that to be perfectly alright too.

"Possibly," Sherlock agreed to the tune of his own ripening amusement. "When's the last time you had something to look forward to, though?"

Now there was a question. And one with a very easy answer. John chuckled, shaking his head at the unquestionable truth as to what made living so much better than simple survival. "Yeah, okay. You, me, and a bottle of wine, Sherlock. Don't be late."

Sherlock smiled with his eyes crinkled and closed, obscuring the way they retained the weight of his concerns even as his face obeyed the farce of his smile. Somehow John believed the smile more, though, than the eyes that warded against too much hope. They both had something to look forward to, even if it did somehow devolve into nothing more than making fish-lips at each other after several glasses of wine and festive giggles at their ridiculousness. 

Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow... Actually, tomorrow was filled with uncertainty--not death. Tomorrow he might kiss a man. Tomorrow John might find a guitar in a petrol station and decide to learn to play. Tomorrow was possibility as much as it could be dread. John found a new song on the mobile and turned the volume up, letting the bass line replace Sherlock's monologues with the melody speaking in turn for himself. It was time to stop fearing a lack of control and a future he couldn't imagine let alone prepare for. By all accounts, they should have been having the time of their lives with everything left to do that was fun and nothing to force them to stop. Sherlock was a pirate now as they sailed on and pillaged along their journey. And really, what could be better than that?

Besides, he had a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it too so long to post the new chapter. Real life is offering some interesting distractions. You can follow me on [tumblr](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/) to keep informed on chapter progress, possible issues and read any teasers I post.


	10. Chapter 10

There was no medicine left in the surgeries they stole from, the capsules and bottles having intrinsic value to even to the lesser of men, but the shelves were still stocked with machinery and equipment that sat like lost relics among the halls of the dead. It wasn't much but it was a start. John stocked up on cleaning supplies while Sherlock loaded up the back of the jeep with diagnostic machines and the glassware to work them. They pilfered mobiles from a electronics kiosk and a microscope, clarinet and reasonably melodic violin from a public school. The instruments had been somewhat random acquisitions but if they were going for quality over quantity now, their lives needed a bit of pointless fun. John missed hearing Sherlock work out a sulk across four strings or entertain a tune of hapless frivolity. John sounded like a dying drake on the clarinet. They both nursed bruised ribs from laughing as they drove off from the painfully quiet towns with a steadily filling jeep. They'd passed a car once while on the highway but other than that isolated incident, it had just been Sherlock and John. It wasn't worth asking where the rest of the populace had gone. They avoided malls and grocers all the same least they find themselves in an altercation with frightened survivors too long satiated in their solitary worlds.

It was fantastic, really. John had often felt that his life with Sherlock was something of an alternative existence from the rest of the world. Only Sherlock could live the life he lived and by extension that which John enjoyed. Now it was rather true in the literal sense as well as the figurative. They really were the only two people on the planet that mattered, surrounded by little more than noise. John regularly forgot what the world had become while sneaking through abandoned buildings at Sherlock's side, gun raised, ready for a fight over simple sundries as they had once stalked killers and sought kidnapped kids. Sometimes he had to stop himself amidst rolling laughter and face-pinching smiles to make sure he still understood the desperate situation, to make sure they hadn't both gone mad. So far so good. The only madness to be had existed in the flush of Sherlock's cheeks at compliments--far from outside the norm but somehow more obvious now--and John's own flustered stammering when his mind felt inclined to debate whether or not his own words or actions could be counted as flirting. The answer was often in the affirmative despite being no different from his normal behavior. It was all a matter of context, really. There was a difference in jerking one's friend by the shirt-front to gain their attention and pulling on the open collar of a man he'd somewhat sort of made romantic plans with. Sherlock reacted the same either way, only making John wonder all the more if this was a moment of situational curiosity for the detective, a bucket-list item to be ticked off and forgotten, or a closeted human desire the strange man had finally admitted to.

John didn't let his mind linger very long on such thoughts--which meant, of course, that they plagued him often. Outside survival, all John had was the date looming ever closer on which he'd promised to kiss his best friend. And that was it, really. It came down to little more than "I like you; let's kiss" with the same childish consideration to what that meant and what came after. John had only dared to bring the uncertainty into question once, asking Sherlock what happened after the kiss. _We breathe_ , Sherlock had said. There was no real talking to someone who refused to see things from a long-term perspective.

John had always been a planner. Get good grade in school, study medicine at Uni, join the RAMC for an illustrious military career. It was the bullet in his shoulder that had made him an impulsive man. Sherlock didn't even _eat_ via a schedule. John envied that sort of detachment from the norm in most respects not in line with self preservation and sustainability. Some things John liked to know, though. So they kissed--what then? If it made their guts wrench in disgust till their skulls and intestines felt cold, he assumed that meant they had their data and knew better than to open that particular door again. But what if Sherlock liked it? What if John liked it? What if they both did? John couldn't even really answer for himself let alone speculate what went on in Sherlock's mind. It was annoying enough to realize that the conversation he thought he'd been having was not really the one going on. 

It was one of those things that only really occurred to someone while holding a washrag and bar of soap in the shower stall of a public school. Perhaps not those details exactly but quiet time spent alone in routine let the mind wander well enough to correct assumptions and offer clarity. Sherlock had never said he had feelings for John. He'd said John had feelings for him, asked what John thought about kissing Sherlock, and in the end it had been John who posed the question back to him in the form of a call to action. John hadn't thought it possible to be both passive and assertive and yet he'd apparently lived through a drive through the countryside in exactly that manner of conversation. Sherlock had not once admitted to anything of substance beyond agreement. It was infuriating. John's cheeks burned red even outside the scold of the water at the thought of his own admissions--limited as they were but still substantially greater in comparison. He could only imagine too well the sorts of deductions Sherlock had made in that hour. It was a little late to pursue damage control and Sherlock hadn't changed due to whatever he thought John might have meant but John's pride winced every time he thought about the stupid 'date' he'd posed while high on adrenalin and still shocked by fear.

It gave him something different to think about, though. About Sherlock. He wasn't just the-man-who-might-be-dying anymore, which had sadly become John's greatest concern and as such Sherlock's defining feature. His coffin-colored lenses had been exchanged for his normal eyes again which saw the man in full spectrum for all his ills and merits. John's mind was far more interested in dissecting every second of their interaction to try and work out the things Sherlock didn't say that day on the road and John held that to be what Sherlock had intended all along. The kiss was a paradox meant to drive John insane. He could kiss that man for the distraction. He was going to, in fact. 

While their days of homelessness were fun, John looked forward to settling down again. It would be nice to have a toilet and a shower not attached to a public building where unclenching was next to impossible when leaving the jeep lead to fear of losing the jeep. It was why one of them almost always stayed within eye-shot of it, especially in situations where pants would be down for at least one party. Sleeping horizontal was another luxury John missed though his back didn't honestly complain. They'd done well to gather provisions, he felt, and they deserved the peace of stretching out and making a new home.

So Sherlock found them a castle.

Mansion was probably more accurate a word but John's experience with the very rich was very limited. He saw huge walls, lots of windows, and enough land for a block of flats and his mind more or less filled in the moat and dragon on its own.

"Here?" he asked, chin nearly pressed to his sternum as he looked up at it through the confines of the window.

Sherlock nodded, taking them up the circle drive to park just outside the front doors. "Estate sale sign down the block but not posted in the yard. Easy enough to see the impression where the sign had been, though--the grass has grown taller except for in two small, vaguely rectangular spots. Sign said the sale was set for August 3rd--The Ark closed its doors on the 29th of July taking with it the governing forces of England. Not likely the sale went underway so I imagine it's still furnished as well."

John raised his brows as he stared up at the aging brick, a rain-stained beige yellow stacked nearly three stories high with a grey peaked roof and white trimmed windows. There was ivy and a large privacy fence, a stone-sculpted entrance and thick, healthy hedges. There was no way in hell it was going to be as easy as opening the front door and staking a claim. "Alright," he said, pursing his lips in doubt. "So we knock on the door and say what exactly to the people who probably live here?"

"Estate sale, John." Sherlock repeated as he put the jeep in park, unfastening his seat buckle with finality. "If they intended to move in at the end of known existence, they wouldn't have been trying to sell off the furnishings. Bank property is my best guess; not inherited but defaulting to the loan holder. It's not exactly on the beaten path and there are clear signs of inhabitants in the surrounding properties so in all probability this is still quite vacant."

John shook his head as he unfastened his own buckle, falling several steps behind Sherlock as the younger man hurried along to pick the lock. "You're going to get us shot," John warned, looking around with well-deserved paranoia as the entryway did its job masking most of Sherlock's deed.

"This isn't the States."

John wasn't sure that really qualified as a response to his concerns but the door was open before he could offer further fret. Possession was nine-tenths of the law--or something like that--and Sherlock had no qualms at all in marching into the home as though he owned it now that his picks had taken care of their entry. John followed behind him at a less eager stride as he listened and looked with a soldier's eyes for the hidden threat that might be lurking inside ready to leap out in fear of their uninvited intrusion.

It was a nice home. Even without Sherlock's level of deductive skill, John could tell an older couple had lived there for all the photographs along the walls that added color like wallpaper to the cream paint behind them. Dark wood accents on the stairwell and flooring, decorative molding--the chandelier alone would have probably paid for a fair portion of his university costs. It wasn't a place of extravagance but there was certainly a decorative nod to the classics in the traditional feel of the warm rooms with their high ceilings. John was a little more concerned with keeping an eye on Sherlock than in taking in the details of the throws, rugs, and furniture but there was certainly a sense of not belonging that went far beyond simple breaking and entering. John didn't mind an expensive bottle of wine or turn away the occasional watch or wallet afforded him by the more affluent Holmeses but luxury was never something he'd considered as a necessary reward for good works. This went far and beyond anything that he'd dreamed, be it fantasy or nightmare. Their flat could easily fit several times over inside the brick building. He liked their flat. A flat was just fine. Two rooms, common areas, a tub and a toilet was all anyone really needed. 

Not that it wasn't nice to think of retiring somewhere with a telly bigger than himself.

"See?" Sherlock said, nearly bouncing down the stairs with his arms wide. "Deserted. Should be plenty of room to set up a small lab. Music room. Plenty of bedrooms to choose from, certainly. We could practically section it off and take a half each."

"Yeah, no, it's... it's nice. Very nice." John cleared his throat as he continued his slower surveillance of the home, not quite sure there wasn't an element of shock in the realization that this was effectively theirs now. They'd won the apocalypse lottery, apparently. Surely there was going to be a catch.

If there was, Sherlock was the least concerned. He flopped his long limbs down into the sofa with a great sigh, heels up on the coffee table next to a small brown envelope as he tested the furniture to be in his liking. He had a body like a billfold that flexed out and folded in as he leaned his head back into the fluffy couch cushions to be pillowed gently rather than firmly as had been the state of the jeep's driver's seat. He looked sated with his head back and eyes closed, full lips slightly parted with a withering exhale. They were home now. Sherlock had found them a home.

It hardly did to complain too loudly at being the only one who was apparently set on bringing a few things in before tea. It would be just as easy to bring in a box or two of dry goods as it would to first check the kitchen to see if they had anything in. John left Sherlock to relax for a bit as he felt a touch of familiarity if heading outside to bring home something to eat. He was far too old for make-believe but it'd be a lie to say there wasn't an element of fantasy in falling into old habits and looking for ways to mirror what once was.

The shotgun was a surprise. Single barrel, at least--old but not antique. John could feel his neck wrinkle under his chin as he arched back from the metal tube set far too close to his face. On the other end, somewhat blurred as his vision focused on the protuberance between them, was a gentleman maybe ten or so years older than himself with silver hair and a more than healthy tan. He had the sharp stare of a man vested in details and the brows of someone who had seen a lot of death. The neighboring grounds weren't exactly what John would have considered hunting territory but he was beginning to find the presence of hunting rifles and general guns for game to be an annoyingly regular sight.

"Alright," the man said, gesturing with the weapon. He sounded a bit like a car exhaust, his cheeks sagging though he was far from fat. "Come on out of there--nice and easy."

It would hardly do to argue. John lifted his hands to show empty palms, following the gesture of the shotgun as he stepped from the stoop to the walkway. The jeep behind them both made it useless as cover. If it came to it, John felt he could probably take the man. Not easily, probably not without first somehow scattering buck-shot through the windows, but he felt rather confident he could bring him down one way or another. Not over the house, though. John would just as soon collect Sherlock and the two of them try to find a different refuge.

The silver-haired man kept the gun's sight aimed at John's chest as he raised his caterpillar brows, side-eying the jeep interior though the heavy tinting made it difficult to see inside. John's hackles raised more at the man's interest in the jeep than they had ever with the gun alone. The jeep was his and Sherlock's life line. Without the jeep, they'd have been dead long before. The jeep was more important than almost anything and if the older man had an interest in it, things were most certainly going to get very bad, very quickly for them both.

"Bill? Everything alright?" Called Sherlock as he swept into view in the doorway. The silver-haired man swung his shotgun in his direction, a motion which caused Sherlock to freeze in uncharacteristic fright as he raised his hands without hesitation. "Oh. Oh, my.... Ah... don't shoot!" he cried, voice cracking slightly on the last syllables. 

If the name hadn't been enough of a giveaway, the performance certainly cued John in. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes at the door. Though he really wasn't sure this was the right time for this sort of nonsense, John held his tongue and played his part as actor in the wings waiting for his stage direction. Easier still would have been Sherlock sweeping in and rescuing him as they both knew he was more than capable of doing. They outnumbered the silver-haired man now and that generally made for a much itchier trigger finger. John licked his lips and sealed them closed as he tried to draw as little attention his way least he be called upon for sudden action.

The silver-haired man looked at John then back towards Sherlock, looking more than a little annoyed to see there was two of them. "Alright, who are you? What are you doing here?"

Sherlock had his chin quivering slightly, throat expanding on a hard swallow. It was a wonder he'd never taken to the stage. "I'm Harvey," he said, then nodded towards John. "This is my brother Bill. We, ah... we came to see our brother, actually. I believe he must be inside asleep somewhere."

The man's frown deepened, his grip on the gun growing slack from the shoulders first, the weight resting on his wrists instead which would never be able to control the kick-back. Judging by his posture, he didn't intend to shoot them anymore. John didn't allow himself to relax just yet but was pleased to see whatever Sherlock was doing, it was certainly working. "Peter's dead," the man said, still glaring at Sherlock skeptically even as the master of manipulation pushed forward every tell of emotional discomfort he could manage. 

"Is he? When did he... Was it his heart or, uh... or did he...?"

The shotgun pointed nose down towards the gravel as the man finally gave up on intimidation tactics. "Heart failure," he said, no kinder than before but certainly buying into the act. "He didn't suffer."

Sherlock smiled slightly, his eyes already red from crocodile tears glistening off his bottom lashes. "Oh, god. Well, I suppose that's a blessing in some ways. Still, I had hoped... First the girls and now this." Sherlock turned his face for a moment, pretending to school himself as he nodded far more than was ever necessary, hands fidgeting at his sides. "Sorry. Ah.. it's been a long trip. First to go get Bill, then here... At times I didn't think we'd make it but I always believed he'd be here still... Sorry. Sorry, you must be his neighbor. Never been very good with names I'm afraid. Doctor, ah..."

"Robinson. Tom."

"Dr. Robinson, of course. A pleasure." The actor pulled a terribly unconvincing smile as his bottom lip continued to pout. Award winning performance, truly. "Thank you for keeping an eye on the place. At least I know the memories are still intact. Umm.. if you'll excuse us, I, ah... thank you." And without another word, Sherlock turned away from the shotgun-holding man and ducked back inside as though he very well belonged there.

Dr. Robinson offered no apologies as he fixed John with his cold stare once more. John forced a frown and gave a nod in parting as he ignored his original task of bringing stuff in and followed Sherlock instead. His heart didn't start beating again until he had the door closed, a long breath whooshing from his mouth as he blinked in wonder at their continued survival.

Sherlock was leaning against the den wall, smiling at John with a sparkle still in his eye though the wetness of tears had evaporated. He looked to have had a great time of that. John wasn't going to disagree overall.

John raised his brows as he walked over to him, trying not to look amused but falling into step with the glee across Sherlock's face. "So I'm Bill now, am I?" he asked.

Sherlock ducked his head with a momentary, eye-squinting smirk before righting himself in his lazy lean. "Only in public," he said. "Best part of the affluent is their bias and selfishness. They won't be bothering us now that they believe we belong here." Which, given the fact that they hadn't been shot or driven off the land, was looking to be the case.

Still, there were a few questions left unanswered. "Alright. You going to walk me through it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You won't be impressed. It's child's play." 

John rolled his eyes, not in the least bit fooled as Sherlock's smile goaded him on to insist. "God, look at you. You want to tell me so bad you can't even keep a straight face. Go on."

There was only the slightest pause as Sherlock pretended to be less keen than he obviously was until rolling his shoulders back and guiding John through it with a point, a gesture, or a nod. "I suppose we can start with the walls. Lots of photographs present so the occupants of this house weren't visited often--if they were, there wouldn't be a need for photographs. The most constant figures are three young women, and a man and woman of comparable age so we can assume that's the family. There's a box of unwanted items on the kitchen including prescriptions and mail addressed to a Peter Wilks so there's our esteemed host whom by virtue of being the only male in the photographs must be the family patriarch. Then there's the note left by the sofa--to Harvey and Bill--hardly genius levels of deduction needed there to infer the former occupant was expecting someone and the clear fact that the neighbors are on patrol but don't shoot first show they're aware of this as well. Photographs, however, show only daughters. He wouldn't leave a note to sons-in-law and not his own blood so that's them ruled out, so brothers it is. Even if Bill or Harvey ended up in actuality being Peter's close friends, the term brother can be extended affectionately whereas the gaff of calling a brother a friend is more transparent. The prescriptions I mentioned before were for the treatment of heart disease, the estate sale itself is representative to his having lost his family already--likely to the plague. Do I need to explain how I knew the man with the gun was a doctor?"

John shook his head, trying hard not to rip apart at the seams from the pleasure their mundane detective work. "Yep. You were right," he said, giving Sherlock's shoulder a firm pat. "Child's play."

"I did say," Sherlock reminded him.

"You did. Very well done, Harvey."

"Thank you, Bill."

John chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped away and gauged how well his heart had settled in his ribs. A laugh had seen him through the worse of that small fright. Somehow, it was much easier to feel safe now that the shotgun wielding resident paranoia had seen itself materialized and dealt with. This was home now with no further worries to contend with. 

Well, almost none. "So what happens when the Wilks brothers actually show up?"

"You honestly think they will?" Sherlock pushed off from the wall, leading the way into the kitchen to go through the cabinets. They weren't so empty as to not include most of the former occupant's selections of cups and teas and cans of beans. A man after John's heart.

"We've had worse luck than that," John reminded him.

Sherlock pursed his lips with a hum. "Perhaps. I think we'll be quite alright, though. If it comes to that, we'll improvise."

That was certainly one thing they were very good at.


	11. Chapter 11

It didn't take long to move in. Most things stayed in their boxes--medicine, plastic wrapped foodstuffs from the service station lobbies, an overabundance of haircare products and razors--while the basics were still offered up by the late but increasingly great Peter Wilks. He'd been John's size if a bit rounder going by the clothes left in the wardrobe. At least one daughter had been long-legged and willowy. John made use of belts while Sherlock suffered floodline hems above his ankles and rhinestone accents along the pockets with minimal fuss. It was just the two of them either way. Though they'd found a decent amount of attire in their sizes along their nomadic journey, it was hardly enough to keep them clothed outside a week's rotation. John hadn't laughed so hard in all his life as when Sherlock had unwittingly worn a pair of yoga pants with the word "gorgeous" scrawled across the arse. It hardly mattered but it was still funny. Their needs were met and then some and that was what counted in the end. John himself had had to make use of one of the other girl's things to find pajama bottoms with drawstrings as Peter's elastic bands hung far too loose. They were a fine pair in pink plaid and heart print in their humble mansion abode. They were happy. They were safe. The violin played on at three a.m. and John rolled over in his bed with a smile as the sound carried from next door as a welcome intrusion on his night's sleep where so much silence had come before.

It had taken John almost three days to work out most of the remote controls for the television set and accompanying surround sound. He'd never been particularly techno savvy but was quite sure there was a great deal wrong in a society that required a man to master not one but three different remotes to engage his entertainment set-up in a call to service. The Wilks had Jurassic Park on Blue-Ray. If John didn't get to hear the damn T-Rex as it chased behind them on the couch in front of a telly it could literally walk through then what was the point of surviving humanity? It was absolutely imperative he got to watch the film in his own mini cinema. Sherlock hadn't seen it. Sherlock _deleted dinosaurs_. It was going to be epic and John was going to enjoy the fuck out of every second of the classic film in all its cinematic glory. If he ever got the remotes figured out. 

John was quite sure Sherlock was humoring him in his acceptance of their evening plans. He'd taken over one of the bedrooms and converted it into a mini laboratory filled with the diagnostic machines they'd stolen. He'd shut himself up for hours at a time with calibrations and fixes to equipment malfunctions the bumpy ride had caused. John left him to it for the most part, pleased to have a bit of time to himself now and then in the wake of their rather cramped existence in the jeep. He brought up food and customarily nagged if he came back to find the plate still full. Sherlock hadn't honestly changed in the least. John could very easily live the rest of his life like this with the inclusion of movie nights and other signs of normalcy.

At half past ten with the sunlight gone and the den plunged into darkness, John sat on the sofa with the main menu on the screen and plenty of room for Sherlock to sit and settle in beside him. He had his remotes labeled and a hand-written cheat sheet for reference if anything were to happen between pressing the selection key to play the film and the roll of the credits. His pink lounge wear was always a bit cramped in the crotch when seated but Sherlock's delay of the film offered the bonus time to adjust himself and sprawl with his legs out on the ottoman to keep the knees from pulling the material too snug. That was perhaps his greatest complaint in the wearing of woman's bottoms. Low-rise was really just high-crotch and made for the uneasy decision of just how much pants was too much and how little scrotal room was too little. He felt like a teenaged hoodlum with his boxers showing several inches above the tops of his pink plaid pajamas with the silver tinsel accents. It didn't feel right to just sit about in his pants, though. Not yet and maybe not ever. There was a certain type of relationship involved in pants lounging in a co-habitated space and in connection to that a certain type of respect shown in not doing so. Sherlock could lounge around naked and sheet swathed like the baby all he wanted but John still felt more comfortable--in some respects--in trousers.

"Sherlock, I'm pushing play," John warned, the detective taking too long in joining him and the sounds of the start menu starting to grow repetitive and annoying. Of what he remembered of the film there was plenty of reason to offer ones' full attention from the very start. Nothing Sherlock couldn't deduce on his own or that wouldn't be better explained later on, though. On the count of three John made good on his threat and let the first chapter begin to play. The sound still worked. The video looked good. He let out a contented sigh and relaxed into the plush cushions as the spoils of his effort surrounded him in brilliant megapixels and thundering jungle sounds. Oh, this was going to be a treat. This was going to be _amazing_.

The couch dipped as the Velociraptor threw itself against the back of its crate, Sherlock settling in, body curling up along the cushions with his head, uninvited, finding a home on John's lap. John tensed and stared down at his curly scalp to the rata-tat-tat of gunfire and screaming. Sherlock said nothing, as though calling attention to the fact he'd chosen to lounge in extremely close proximity was unnecessary. Maybe it was but John wasn't exactly comfortable with that level of presumption on the detective's part. This wasn't a date. They weren't lovers. They hadn't even had their scheduled kiss yet and if the way John felt about Sherlock's head in his lap was any indicator, that kiss was not going to be the most advisable move they'd ever made. He tried to ignore the awkwardness, give himself a minute to see if it was more surprise than anything else that made him want to push the other man up. The screen faded out to the slipping of a hand and Sherlock shifted only to get more comfortable, quite set on his choice of body placement.

It was... it was too different. This wasn't them. Sherlock hadn't cuddled up to anyone in all the time John had known him and to have him cuddled up to him now was not a feeling of reward or exclusivity but mild repulsion. Whether Sherlock was simply trying too hard or misinterpreting the situation, it was just... wrong. John liked the behavior from girls but from Sherlock it was just a bit too familiar--a though process that made little sense but explained the fight-or-flight sensation in his gut at having the back of the other man's head just inches away from the junction of his trousers.

John licked his lips, drumming his fingers on the back of the couch where his arms were spread out to either side. "You, ah... you want to sit up?" he asked--less a request and more of a kindly expressed order.

"I'm fine here, thanks."

Sherlock had grown selectively deaf to subtext it seemed. John scowled, eying the faceless lump on his lap. "Okay... Probably not really appropriate is all."

Sherlock shrugged his top shoulder but made no effort to move. "Perhaps not. I'll stay, though, if it's all the same."

It wasn't. John hadn't actually expected opposition if he'd laid the hint out there. Sherlock had put him in the rather awkward dilemma now of deciding if it was worth the argument to set some boundaries or let him lounge seeing as he wasn't really hurting him just by simply being there. There was certainly a principle to be upheld in the matter so far as respecting John's wishes but it was late, the film had just started, and an argument would either take ages or explode with no time to reconcile till morning. John sighed, letting one hand fall to Sherlock's head to at least pull his bangs back and let him see what sort of mood Sherlock was in--looking for a fight or simply a victim of his own particular ignorance. His head was warm, though. Even without touching it directly, John could feel heat radiating off his skin. Sherlock had a fever.

Sherlock had a fever.

John's arm came down around Sherlock's chest, hand splayed over his heart as his other one fell to press to the clammy skin of the brunet's forehead.

"Just ignore it," Sherlock requested, his own hand curling to press against the back of John's at his chest. "We're watching this."

John was having a hard time keeping his limbs from shaking as his own heart raced with fear and adrenalin. It could be the last time he ever touched Sherlock's skin with uncovered hands, the last time Sherlock could be close enough to another human being to feel their own body heat, listen to the blood in their veins, feel the expansion of their breath. John breathed through his mouth as the air trembled too harshly in his chest to escape slowly through his nose. He wasn't ready. He'd never be ready. This wasn't supposed to happen. "Maybe it's a summer cold," John offered. Sherlock's chuckle rumbled against his palm.

"Maybe," he said, offering no complaint to the way John's hand touched at his face, obscuring his view of the film as archeologists swept at old, dead bones.

They waited until the movie ended as Sherlock had asked, the subtleties of close contact set to the timer of the film's running time. He had selected a guest room with an en suite and taken the door off its hinges, hanging instead the clear plastic sheeting of a bath curtain to create a transparent barrier in the face of quarantine. John felt something in him lurch as the curtain fell between them. John brought medicine for fever and a draught to help him sleep and while Sherlock curled up in the pillow-top bed, John sat sentry in the hall with his back against the wall. John didn't sleep; couldn't sleep. A watched pot never boiled so he watched Sherlock all night, willing for the only change to be a breaking of his fever. He spent the night praying to any deity watching, begging and bartering with all he had left. And in the morning, as Sherlock shuffled to the toilet, John saw the cysts that had broken out against the once flawless skin of his back. He swallowed a sob as Sherlock paused at the nearly inhuman sound of a heart breaking, neither turning nor offering comment as he continued through the door and out of sight.

Hope died that day. 

John outfitted himself with silicon gloves and took the medicine out of the boxes. Anything that passed between the curtain took a one-way trip, both men gloved against any contact during meals and the exchange of drugs. Day one was hard in the face of disbelief and a profound numbness to reality. Sherlock's pained cries dispelled most of that by that first night of surety. The medicine could only do so much, the safe measures of dosage only recommended at certain intervals. The detective gasped and writhed in his bed, searching for some way to lie that did not hurt, some magic position that would offer relief from his own skin and bones. And John watched, unable to go to his side, stationed permanently on the other side of the plastic sheeting in his own hell of uselessness. This was what the gun had been for. His promise to Mycroft had been to not let him suffer and John did not deserve the peace of quiet so long as Sherlock still lived. Sherlock did not sleep. John did not sleep. Breakfast came with a nearly lethal dosage of pain killers and still John listened to him cry, out of sight, under the spray of water from the bathroom as he tried to keep his wounds clean.

Stage one was fever. Stage two brought the sores. Stage three saw empyema of the lung pleura. Sherlock would drown in puss, gargling for breath even as his body eroded away his flesh with cysts that swelled his tongue and blinded him. John listened to his cries for the gurgle of fluid even as Sherlock tried to keep quiet--seemingly for John's sake rather than pride. Sipping from the cup, a tablespoon or more of Oxycodone slurped down and licked up from the sides of the vessel, Sherlock gave a shaky exhale of imminent relief as he tossed yet another plastic cup into the corner of abandonment. His lungs, thankfully, still sounded clear.

"You'll throw it up if you don't eat," John warned him, nodding to the thawed out bread on the plate he'd slid under the curtain as well.

Sherlock nodded mechanically, obeying doctor's orders for the first time in his life in the off-chance it helped him survive. He ate slowly, the sores on his face oozing as his jaw moved with every bite. Puss trickled down his cheeks like tears. John swallowed thickly as Sherlock dabbed at his face with a wince and a soapy wash rag. "Bit crap this," Sherlock said, eying his sliced bread with a pout. "Couldn't bother to spare some cheese?"

The attempt at humor was a nice gesture but John was having a hard time even forcing a smile. "Could have, I guess. Figured the last thing you needed was to get all bound up inside on top of all this."

"Fair point," Sherlock conceded. His own smile was retained in his eyes rather than his face as cysts of varying sizes tore through the alabaster skin. He'd been a beautiful man once. John regretted never telling him so. The proud man would probably have liked the compliment even if he professed to not really care. Sherlock sat as close to the curtain as he'd allow himself, taking a few deep breaths as he tried to finish eating despite his body's attempts to make him stop. "Don't get this, John," he said, tearing his bread into tiny pieces and squishing it flat between finger and thumb to swallow whole. "No risk is worth it, you understand?"

John nodded, watching him with acute interest and eyes red from unshed tears of concern. "Yeah, I understand." He screwed the lid on the medicine bottle tight, tempted to leave it within arms reach should a desperate man decide the effort was too great and find a need of eternal release. It would be so easy to leave it there in hopes for a moment of weakness, John's own cowardice tempting fate where he stood to guard instead. "You still.... you still think you can do this?" he asked, asking permission in the same breath as he wished for strength.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he let a flat square of bread melt on his tongue. "In for a penny," he said as his sores continued to weep.

John watched his face and nodded again, powerless to do much else.


	12. Chapter 12

John didn't have a choice but to leave. No, that wasn't quite true. He didn't have to leave but it was better if he did. Not for long, an hour at most, but it would be enough. His nerves were raw and his brave-face heavy. Sherlock could certainly use the time to let out whatever he kept inside to try and spare John from knowing how truly bad it was. He took the keys and drove the jeep down to the nearest store in hopes of finding straws through which to feed Sherlock through as chewing was becoming impossible and even water was a chore to set against his blistered lips. Straws and protein shakes. Liquid vitamins. Health food alternatives that could be found in non-perishable forms that might have perhaps remained unscavenged in the month since all hell had broken loose. He took the gun and every precaution as he strafed through the aisles of the Tescos, listening carefully for whispers or the rustle of movement. At no point did he relax. He didn't need to relax. It was good enough to have his mind focused on something he could have some margin of control over. 

The store was a complete mess. There was nothing left of food save what was rotting in the deli cases and in the fresh fruit and veg stands. The frozen cases were empty. Even the health foods' aisle was swept clean of its stores. No protein powders, then. He'd have to think of something else. He found the straws on an endcap and grabbed a couple packages just in case. There was still baby food in the baby aisle. John wasn't sure if there was anything to be read into there or if it was worth it to try. He grabbed a container of powdered formula and a few jars of puree and remained simply thankful to have found something he could offer his sick friend. It wouldn't have been enough to satisfy John to have returned from the trip with nothing but straws.

Something moved. John heard the thunder and crash of a round object rolling off a shelf and slamming to the floor unbroken. He put his basket down slowly, crouched near the stained floor with his gun out, listening carefully, blood roaring in his ears. Footsteps. He could hear footsteps. Women's heels it sounded like as they click-clacked against the covered concrete. But no, that wasn't quite right. Not heels, _nails_. There was an animal loose in the store with him. John thumbed off the safety and cocked back on the chamber. There was no point in interrogating a beast and all the reason to expect it felt the same about him.

From around the corner came a caramel colored dog, thin with a black mouth and what could have passed for black eyebrows. It wagged its tail, head down in submission as it happily approached with its waving hindquarters causing it to serpentine in its path. John broke through its skull with a 9mm standard. It fell over with hardly a whimper, its tiny brain spattered against the smiling baby faces on the diaper display. He shot again. He shot again. He kept his distance from the spray, his promise not forgotten, but the anger in him surged at finding at last some release in the act of vengeance. No more Sophies; no more Sherlocks. He listened as the gunshots echoed through the empty store, waiting for the sound of scurrying talons on linoleum. They either weren't there or they were clever enough to keep in hiding until he left. Safety back on, gun stowed in his pocket, John knelt down and picked his basket back up and proceeded to walk around a bit more just to see what was left. A new CD might be nice. For the jeep. To fill in the silence. He picked up handfuls at random and chucked them in his basket. No time like the present to find new artists.

It was hardly surprising that the card aisle was fully stocked. Birthday, anniversary, sympathy cards were actually hit hardest but even then there was plenty to choose from. John flipped through a few decks, finding a ' _Get Well Soon_ ' card meant for a child which featured an appropriately grumpy looking young boy with black hair, lips grim around a red thermometer. That went into his basket as well. He grabbed packets of balloons and streamers for no other reason than they were there. He took a sympathy teddy bear and tucked it under his arm. Had there been flowers, he'd have grabbed those too. As he left the detector at the door went off, none of his items having been paid for and as such an affront to its singular nature. John chuckled to himself at how ignorant some machines were. 

Soulful folk tunes harried him home.

In the kitchen, John signed the card and set it in the teddy bear's arms. He mixed up formula and put it in a cup with a straw. Sherlock was practically screaming upstairs but that wasn't new and so it didn't hurry him. He'd quiet down as soon as he saw John. He always did. 

John carried up the bear and cup, offering both through the plastic sheet. "Got you something," he said, trying not to frown at the crumpled mess that was Sherlock. He was a sheeted lump in the doorway, twitching intermittently with the effort to keep himself calm. The sheet was spotted in blood and fluids and though he generally kept even his head covered, he pulled it down below his chin to better see John's latest offerings. Sherlock closed a spotted hand around the toy, dragging the bear and card closer with a smile that almost literally cracked his face wide open. The blood trickled and soaked into the sheet as Sherlock let his hands stroke the soft fur of the stuffed animal in his grasp.

"You got me a bear," he said. 

Sometimes, when he stated the obvious, John feared he might be blind. He cleared his throat, nodding lightly to himself as his brows furrowed over difficult feelings. "Yeah. Card too. Says 'Get Well Soon'. Kid on the front reminded me of you so I figured you should have it." John licked his lips, swallowing on something stuck deep in his chest. "I wrote on the inside too. Nothing much. Called you a bastard."

Sherlock chuckled, opening the card and looking over it with an amused smile before setting it aside and pulling the teddy bear close. Hopefully it was still warm. John had held it for a long time, put it up under his shirt even to try and transfer as much heat as possible. It wasn't the same as touch but it felt like an effort made all the same. It was a lot smaller when held in Sherlock's hands than John had thought it was when he'd bought it. It disappeared completely under the sheet in seconds, though, as well as most of Sherlock's face though his lips remained visible below the hem still pulled into a pleasant smile.

He hadn't touched the formula or commented on the straw. John didn't feel like pestering him all that much about it for once. He made himself comfortable instead and watched the way tears followed the same paths as blood down the sides of his friend's face.

"Your hands looked good," John said, making conversation, knowing it caused discomfort for Sherlock to do the same. "You've done a really good job keeping the sores clean. Looks like some of them are even healing. That's a real good job you've done."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed. He hadn't been able to do much of a job of it lately. That was okay. He'd still done well. He'd done better than probably anyone would have expected. John could have asked for more but it would be a lie to say he'd expected it.

John hugged his knees to his chest as he sat, letting his chin rest on his folded arms. "I got some music. Listened to one on the way. Probably need to return it. Not really my style. Too much banjo."

Sherlock's chuckle ended in a whimper as he curled up around himself, around the bear. He really needed to stop trying to make him smile. John really didn't know how else to act, though. Humor was a defense mechanism. He and Sherlock both resorted to it now and then. Often, really. Somber wasn't really in their repertoire.

"Got balloons too. And streamers. Same aisle as the card so, I thought, ya know... why not?"

"Am I to have a party?" Sherlock asked, lips still firm in their smile.

John nodded, mirth escaping through his nose on an exhale. "Yeah. That's the plan. Big ol' party. Tell you what, you can even invite all your friends."

Sherlock chuckled and dipped his head, the sheet blossoming further in red like an artists representation of a flower. There was the bouquet he'd wanted to bring him. Flowers shouldn't smell like rot.

John poured out another dose of medicine and slid it carefully under the curtain. He put a straw in it and this time Sherlock did notice. He sucked it down slowly, more of his face showing temporarily as he pushed himself up with great effort to reach the bendy utensil. John had seen burn victims who had looked more human. The laughing and smiling had pulled apart the scabs that had grown in since the last time they'd spoke. Clots of blood and yellow puss stuck out in random patches as they dried. He no longer had the strength to pat them clean with a cloth. They broke and reformed, broke and reformed. John'd never seen laughter in tissue before. He hated to find he saw them more a thing of pride than repulsion.

Drugged and weary, Sherlock sank back to the floor. There were a few whimpers of discomfort but nothing like what they used to be. Sherlock just seemed heavier now, insides replaced with lead so he could not move from far from the floor. John clenched his jaw against his own observations and the deductions they invariably lead him towards. Sherlock hadn't slept for days; he was tired--that was all. He just needed sleep. Just a little bit. And the way his breath fell shallow then deep made John feel he might finally find some.

Sherlock's sheet moved awkwardly along his side, the arm underneath moving slowly, feeling along the fur of the teddy bear he still held secreted away underneath. "There are.. many things I would like to tell you. But I'm not going to," he said, his voice mumbled but audible still. "I would rather lay dying with regrets than come even that close to admitting defeat."

John nodded, aware he couldn't see him but with little else to say. He knew. And surely Sherlock knew that too. If there was one thing John knew for certain, when all his self-imposed checks and balances fell aside like the red sea to the instance of logic, it was that Sherlock loved him, only him, and that he always had. Who needed words when there were memories? John let his forehead fall to crossed arms and did his best not to cry as he sat in solitary vigil.

He didn't remember falling asleep. 

John nearly smashed the back of his head against the wall as he awoke, startled by his own apparent ability to shut down and recharge when the battery had run itself low. Empty was more like it. He blinked at the hallway, confused for half a second as the present filtered itself through the dreams and nightmares of a tired mind. No, something was still wrong. Something still wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it, though. It festered at the tip of his mind but failed to fall into place. 

Standing up, John stretched and listened to his vertebra pop in annoyance with his choice of sleeping posture. The wood floor was hardly kind to his tailbone and backside. He rubbed at them, cheeks numb from the previous pressure and legs running through with temporary pins and needles as blood moved and feeling returned and lord knew he was not a young man anymore. He looked over into Sherlock's room, his friend curled on his slide and still. He didn't look to have moved at all since John had last seen him. Not the tiniest bit. Perfectly quiet and peaceful and not at all like the writhing man who had moaned complaints for days as his body stole all comfort from him. No whimpers, no tears, just silence under a stained sheet.

John knocked at the wall. "Sherlock?" He waited, knocking again harder and slower with forced intent. " _Sherlock? ___" It would be such a shame to wake him, so unkind to steal this reprieve but he just needed to--he needed to wake up now. To eat and take his medicine. He could probably use a shower as well so he just really needed to wake up and get the day started. Lazy bum. Who told him he could sleep all day? "Sherlock, get up," he ordered, patting the plastic so it rattled with a hollow thunk. "Sherlock....please?" and on that final note his voice cracked and split his senses like shattered glass. He wasn't really trying to wake Sherlock up. He just didn't want him to be dead.

John punched the wall, his fist easily breaking through the plaster. He screamed and turned the hole into a crater as he pounded both fists on the weakened panel till his arms and fists were as red as his eyes, the skin stinging from contact but unbroken. He slid down to the floor with sobs too heavy to hold him on weak knees. God, no. Jesus, no. Not yet. Not now. Not like this. He ripped at the plastic curtain and watched it sink down in the empty door frame, half covering Sherlock's body under the once protective shield. Was he still warm? Had it been recent? John wiped his face and crawled towards him, rearranging the curtain till it fell safely over his body in its entirety where John could pretend to touch him once more. He couldn't feel warmth but he could feel pliability. Rigor mortis hadn't yet set in. Likely he'd only just missed him. Too busy asleep to notice. Stupid transport. Ruining everything.

He laid down where he could wrap both arms around him, still above the plastic, holding him as he had wanted to do when he'd been up for hours in pain and frustration. When the medicine was never enough. When he turned his back to John so he could lie and say it would all be okay. He'd wanted more than anything to hold the lonely man so that he would never have reason to feel that he would die as alone in the world as he had lived most of it. And then he fell asleep. Had Sherlock called for him? Said his name? Had he tried in those last minutes to tell John he loved him only to hear back nothing but silence? John choked on grief and drowned in guilt. He'd had just one job, one role in this world to play, and somehow he still managed to fuck it up.

John wiped the snot from his face, sitting up against the heavy trembling in his bones that broke him with the weight of his heart. He pet his hand down the side of Sherlock's face, the plastic smooth where he knew his flesh was riddled. And he saw the fog above his lips that turned the clear curtain opaque. John froze and stared, watching as the material turned transparent and then, in another instant, fogged over again. 

John practically rolled out of the room, throwing the curtain far away as he tumbled down the hall to his own room where the boxes of medical supplies were stored. He fumbled with the aural thermometer and ran back to his patient, throwing down towels from the hall closet as he made his way into the room again. He knelt down and pressed the thermometer into his ear, never-minding the curls that delved down with the device into the cavity. Wait, wait, beep, ninety-eight point-- _Jesus Christ, his fever had broken!_ He wasn't sure the sound he made classified as human as he stood, unsure what to do but very sure it was still not technically safe for him to be in that room. He followed an auto-pilot sense of direction, hurrying to one of the many bathrooms to drag another plastic curtain to the hall and staple it into place. 

Drugged, not dead; exhausted and finally able to rest and heal. He'd thought the sores on his hands look better, he thought he complained less of the pain. 

John stood outside his hastily stapled wall of protection and hurried to the bathroom, clothes dropped to the floor to be handled later and burned. He wasn't quite sure if he was laughing or crying and for a moment was rather unsure if there had ever been a different between them. He had balloons to blow up. He had streamers to hang. Under the scold of hot water and the raking of soap, John felt he had a million things to plan and not one of them, not a single solitary one, was a funeral.


	13. Chapter 13

They waited over a week to take the plastic curtain down. John considered pulling out the streamers and balloons for the occasion but thought better of it without much prodding. They burned everything. Sherlock tossed bleach around the room but still sealed it off once the door was replaced on its hinges. That door was never to be opened again. That was fine by John. Some things were best to be left behind.

Sherlock was fastidious about overall cleanliness, keeping gauze over wounds that simply refused to heal while allowing scabs and clothing to protect John against the overall fear of contagion--if there still was one. Without proper equipment, they simply could not know. In the absence of knowledge they created a careful line between Sherlock's things and things John could touch. Sherlock's part of the couch was lined in cling film just in case. It sounded like old velcro every time he sat up.

The first few days there had been talk about what Sherlock might look like after the sores healed. Over time they talked about what he might look like once the scarring faded from fresh pink and lavender to white or dusky beige. They didn't talk about it anymore. There were craters in his face and body where the cysts had destroyed too much to ever grow back whole. The constant cracking of the sores along his face, a mistake repeated often even after the danger passed, left almost web-like patterns on each cheek that deepened into crevasses where his laugh-lines had always been strongest. He was missing chunks of hair, the follicles destroyed and never to grow back, partial eyebrows included. He was hideous in all honesty. The sight of him could probably make a grown man scream in terror and swear on his last breath that he'd seen the dead walking or the devil's first born now set upon the earth. John, however, didn't even have to work at suppressing a shudder or not flinching in his presence. He'd been there to watch the sores appear and he'd stayed to watch them scab and mend. The grotesqueness left behind was just the price to be paid for his life. It was worth it. He was alive after-all. 

What more could anyone ask for?

Food, in all honesty. Meat. Sherlock had been quite right about the hoarding nature of the wealthy but even a hundred cans of beans and creamed corn required rationing of one form or another. If they both lived another forty years and ate three meals a day, they would need 87,658 meals to see them through. If even that volume of food existed, they'd have to start breaking into people's homes to find it, increasing the chances of altercations leading to injury, illness or death. They weren't farmers. Sherlock didn't trust fresh meat least there exist the possible threat of contagion in the consumption of its flesh. They had a couple hundred cans of food and from there a handful of options. John rather preferred not to discuss them all the same. 

Sherlock was a problem solver by nature, though. He'd made himself in charge of their food situation almost as soon as he'd deemed it permissible for him to leave quarantine. John was just glad to have gotten him well fed before the restrictions fell into place. His body needed the fuel. So did his mind. There was zero chance of their ever finding a new village home with Sherlock so obviously affected. Shot dead on the spot had been John's nightmare scenario. Even here John kept the window treatments closed. Sherlock would never be welcome anywhere, the scars too numerous to hide, save for one place in all of Britain--the Ark. And they'd taken them. They'd take them both. They'd take them and split them apart and hurry Sherlock away to be dissected and jarred while John sat uselessly in a cement cell with the honor of representing humanity's good moral character under Mycroft's grim observation. And for that price, mankind might be saved. Mankind wasn't nearly seductive enough to make John turn away the life of a man he'd only just retained.

He could see it, though. Sometimes. In Sherlock's eyes. He was a detective, he solved puzzles, he helped people as a byproduct of his own curiosity. Was the disease transferable by animal or was it just a coincidence? Puzzle. Had the gestation of his infection had an impact on his survival or was it something else entirely? Puzzle. Did he now have antibodies from fighting the sickness and surviving which could be isolated and used for possible treatment or immunization? Puzzle. The only sure way to have any answers was to propose them to the very think-tank that threw him out. And if the answer was ' _yes_ '...

No. John preferred not to discuss those options. It _wasn't_ an option as far as he was concerned. They would pillage as pirates and keep the Wilks home as their secret lair. They would struggle and it would be hell some days and thank god for that because otherwise they'd probably get bored. It seemed harder to convince Sherlock of that, though, with a mind stuck on variables and mounting concerns for their own viability. 

John knew what to do about that, at least.

Standing in the kitchen with his hands in the dish water, John looked over at Sherlock who seemed far away again, lost in his own thoughts. He perched on the counter like a child, long legs kicking as though just to hear the clunk of the bottom cabinet under the percussion of his heels. He was wearing something of Mr. Wilks' today and so his striped socks shown almost to the threaded tops against his spotted calves. He looked young in his mannerisms and impossibly old in his stare. Really, outside the wardrobe, what else was new? "I seem to remember there being talk about a kiss," John said, bubbles up to his elbows as he scrubbed clean teflon pots.

Sherlock's spine straightened a bit with that, shoulders rolling back as patchy brows raised. His feet stopped kicking the cabinets. "According to your stipulations, I'm no longer eligible," he said. "I got sick."

"Yeah, well... stipulations change. I'm an adaptable kind of guy."

"Not really." Sherlock pulled a face, resuming the thud of his heels as he watched the ceiling. "You roll with the punches but your core beliefs and desires remain unchanged. If you were adaptable, you wouldn't have needed me all those years ago. Civilian life verses the thrill of the fight? You've a stiff upper lip but you're as stubborn as I am under it all. Neither of us is adaptable. We change the world, not ourselves."

Of course he had to make this difficult. John frowned, the yellow sponge in his hand rubbing hard against the baked-on grit. "Yeah, alright, I'll give you that. Ingenuity over adaptability. You get what I'm saying, though."

Sherlock cocked his head in his direction. "Do I?"

"Yes. You do."

The detective paused and gave John a hard look, one eye focusing better than the other as uneven pupils searched for something in John's words, stance or demeanor. John stopped scrubbing and pulled his arms from the sink, wiping them off on a dish towel reserved primarily for the drying of dishes as he leaned back against the slightly dampened granite, giving Sherlock his full attention as the other man gave him his.

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking down at the floor for a second before shifting back to empty space. "I rather think we're both emotionally comprised at this time. The relief of my survival has had a general effect of heightened spirits and increased frivolity."

John chuckled loudly. "Right, why would anyone want to date someone while they're both happy?" he asked with a roll of his eyes, tossing the towel at Sherlock playfully which he caught without ever having to see it. "Now, okay, I'll grant you some of it might be relief. That feeling that says I should maybe see about sleeping in your bed just so I'd have a bit of peace of mind? Yeah, that sort of shit is the relief talking. You scared the shit out of me. Relief isn't all of it though. We've gotten into plenty of scrapes in the past that have left me relieved to have escaped with our lives and not once did I think it called for a kiss or think ' _god, I want to hold that man_ '. I'd kiss you now if I thought you'd let me."

Sherlock kept his eyes facing out and away, head ducked slightly with a barely perceivable smirk against his lips. "Because there's no one else?" he asked.

John shook his head. "Nah. Because, if I think about it, there never really was."

The younger man chuckled at that, leaning his head back as his smile twisted his face into dark and grotesque lines. "John Watson, I think you might still be in love with me," he said.

John found a bit of laughter against his own lips as well. "Sherlock Holmes, I'm pretty damn sure you're in love with me too."

They were horrendously stupid people. But that was okay. No one had to know.

John rested his hand against Sherlock's, the scarred surface imperceptible under the water-borne wrinkles of his fingertips. His tan seemed outrageously dark against the pale and polka-dots. "I said I'd like to kiss you," he repeated, his voice made lower as he came to stand closer. "If you'll let me."

Sherlock turned his face towards him, his seat on the counter putting his head far above John's and most certainly requiring his active participation. He slid off slowly, both feet planted on the kitchen tile as he leaned back against his former seat, disfigurement inches from John's own eyes and still he hardly blinked.

And then a helicopter flew overhead. John paused as his brain worked to file that sound under ' _things we know_ ' as Sherlock's faster processing speed had him rounding the kitchen counter in seconds as he slid down before a window and peeked around the blinds.

A helicopter. _A bloody helicopter!_ "What the hell was that?" John asked, even as his brain shouted again: _helicopter, helicopter, who the hell has a helicopter?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him as John came to stand beside him at the window, thankfully not feeling the need to answer in the literal sense. "It's the British Army," he said, looking none too pleased.

John tucked his teeth into his lips as he pushed apart the blinds, looking up at the clear sky where not a single bird could be seen, metal or not. There was a feint rumble all the same. He hadn't noticed it in the kitchen but by the front of the house there was most definitively the sound of motors running, something heavy sending small vibrations through the ground. He hadn't the chance to ask what Sherlock through it was before the eye of a tank looked out over their fence, rolling along the main road with a soldier sitting comfortable atop her.

"Jesus Christ," John breathed, watching the helicopter fly by again, a procession of military jeeps rolling past the gate of their home in the company of the armored assault vehicle. "What the hell are they doing here?" he asked.

Sherlock hummed on indecision, keeping low to keep out of sight. "The same thing we are, I suppose. Where else do you go if you need to house a small army?"

John cursed, watching the endless procession of familiar vehicles roll slowly past their drive. More guns. That was exactly what their situation needed; more guns and more people itchy to pull the trigger at the first sight of infection. They needed to just keep going. The likelihood was low considering the street was private but John had to hope whatever had answered his last prayer might still be listening now.

"So that's who Mycroft left in charge," Sherlock muttered, more for his own benefit than for John's as they watched the slow procession where the tank's main gun passed over them like an all-seeing eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Khorazir](http://khorazir.tumblr.com) made this [fantastic illustration](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/58951688422/you-got-me-a-bear-inspired-by-chapter-12-of) from chapter 12. Thank you! <3


	14. Chapter 14

"William Wilks, was it?" the Colonel Sherburn asked, looking John up and down like a doner kebab. John had greeted them in the front yard, wanting them as far from the house as possible, but found little comfort in the closed front door when in the scrutinizing presence of the Colonel and the six armed privates. 

It had been unavoidable. Within hours of the tour rolling through the streets there had been men seen going to the neighboring houses. Sometimes people didn't answer. Sometimes there were body-bags. Without the jeep, Sherlock and John were sunk and so there was nothing to be done but wait till the cover of night. John wished it was winter where the dusk fell long before tea. The summer night was still a long ways away. "Yes, that's right. Can I help you?" John eyed the assault rifles, doing his best not to adopt a militant stance in the presence of a superior officer and other men of rank.

The Colonel smiled. He was an older man with sagging jowls and not but a whisper of hair for brows. "Just checking in. Everything alright here?"

John nodded, eyes shifting as the solder's spread out. "Just fine. Thank you," he said. "Not that comfortable with a tank in the neighborhood, though."

"Not to worry. It's for use against walls and blockades--not people," he explained, though John had doubts as to how genuine the man's assessment was as to who or what built and defended such structures. The Colonel continued to smile all the same, a personable face to an unwanted occupation. The sooner he took his smarmy mug off John's lawn the better. 

One of the soldier's approached with a small grey box in his hand, a thick cellular phone perhaps or a--a disease detection reader like the one they used in the Ark. The hair on the back of John's neck stood straight at the sight of it, his eyes shifting around to where the milling soldiers stood in formation around him, flanking him from all sides. No escape. He tried not to smile with disdain. So that was the game: drive into town, test everyone alive, murder the sick. He wished he was surprised but found little reason to pretend. He'd served in the army; he knew what it was like. That little box worried him all the same.

He could have been more careful. Exposed to Sophie, exposed to public facilities, exposed to Sherlock. He'd always taken great care to follow up any instance of possible contact with best-practices medical hygiene but there was still a very good reason why most doctors who encountered the disease died. It wasn't just contagious, it was _very_ contagious. And as the soldier brought the hand-held device forward, his own hands gloved and a lancer between his fingers, John could not help but think back to the moment he tore through the makeshift quarantine room to check Sherlock's not-dead body.

"This," the Colonel said, "is a device which can detect the disease in your bloodstream."

John swallowed hard and decided to play dumb. "Well, no need for that, then. Your people are the first ones I've stepped out of my house for in days. Don't see me covered in spots."

The Colonel nodded, still stepping aside as the other solder stepped forward. "Actually, new evidence suggests that the disease can lay dormant for some time before progressing into stage one."

John didn't even have to fake surprise. They knew. "Can it really?" he asked, making a show of looking over his shoulder and the solders who stood stock still, eyes on John. "And if it says I have the disease, then what? Are they going to shoot me?"

"Oh, no, that would be far too dangerous." The Colonel did not stop smiling, not once, not even a flinch. "We prefer to hang the ill. No bloodshed that way. The guns are only for if you run. You wouldn't run now, would you?"

John licked his lips as the soldier waited for him to offer up his hand.

"Just a little prick and they'll collect everything they need for the test."

Jaw locked and teeth throbbing with the pressure, John offered his hand to the needle. It stung as the lancer stripped through his skin, the rise of blood nearly instantaneous. Well hydrated, then. Good on him. Stupid diagnosis to stop him being scared. The drop pressed to the device, seconds passing before the green light sprang up like a happy little beacon. The soldier visibly relaxed, more so than even John. He wondered vaguely how many people he'd watched stare into a red light and either run or dangle from a limb.

The Colonel waved and the surrounding soldiers pulled in. Condition met; everything fine. John hated them all just a little. "Will you be staying here long, Mr. Wilks?"

"Uh.. yeah. I live here," he said, sucking on his finger while the soldier fiddled in his pocket for a plaster. 

"You may want to rethink that."

John eyed the Colonel, brows knitting tightly over his eyes. "Why's that exactly?"

"We're shutting down the power grid," He explained, as though announcing the Sunday paper was going to be late. "No power means no water, no sewage treatment, nothing. You're healthy so you can come with us."

"And where are you going?"

The Colonel's smile grew. "There's a military installation in Sandhurst which has been outfitted for this situation. Plenty of room for extras. I promise you, we haven't encountered many." He gave John another once over, nodding slightly. "No one's forcing you to come but it's certain death if you don't."

John swallowed hard, trying not to imagine what true darkness looked like knowing it waited just there on the horizon. "I, uh... I'll keep that in mind."

The older gentleman nodded, little signals given which sent his men walking back down the drive towards the main road. "We'll be here a week at most. Let us know if you're interested. We're prepared to send you to your final destination either way you desire."

"I'm sure you are."

With a pleased smirk the Colonel nodded and began to walk away, pausing for just a second as he motioned towards the jeep. "Fine vehicle you've got there," he said. John felt a bead of sweat roll down his spine as the man all but winked and turned away, leaving John free to return to the house though his feet left him rooted for a moment more. He never trusted a happy killer. Righteous men with guns were always the first to pull the trigger, their own convictions greater than the presence of contrary fact. The sooner he and Sherlock left, the better. He doubted the sick feeling in his gut would pass until they were miles away with not a wink of them in their mirrors.

Inside the house, Sherlock was stood waiting in forced calm, his expression locked down and harsh. He noticed the plaster instantly, his left brow ridge raising curiously. 

John smiled, imparting a bit of the relief at least that part had brought. "They tested me for the disease again," he said, waving the finger among the other four. "Passed it. Obviously. They'd have had me hanged otherwise."

Sherlock shoulders rolled forward in a satisfied slouch. "Good," he said, and left it at that. Neither really needed to say how grateful they were for such confirmation. Not when so much else was far from good. "Did they ask about the jeep?"

"Mentioned it but didn't ask. Said the power's going to go off, though."

"Guess it was too much to hope they'd keep it running for everyone." Sherlock hung his head for a second, turning to lean his body against the wall as he crossed his arms over his chest. "You should go with them, John."

John shook his head. "No. I'm not leaving you behind."

"I'm not saying I'd stay." Sherlock's jaw flexed but the expression that might have been was muddled in scar tissue. "I would be useless without power. I don't know how to make fire, we've already made the consensus we can't hunt for our food, all there is is shelter and limited provisions. Those men might kill me as soon as look at me but if I call Mycroft--"

"I thought we were of a consensus there too," he interrupted. Sherlock met his gaze and held it but said nothing. Too few options; too many obstacles. John licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Look, the way I see it, you're the ace up our sleeve. Sad but true. And you and I, we can go anywhere and do anything and if we just can't anymore... well, Mycroft will come get us. If just to get his hands on you."

Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes unfocused in their stare. "The only thing we risk is your health," he said, obviously unconvinced it was worth it.

John let out a deep breath, tired of the issue which never seemed to go away. There was a knock at his door before he could speak, though, which repeated itself heavily in the absence of reply. Without a word, Sherlock slipped around the corner out of sight while John waited with a slow gait before answering the door.

The Colonel was back, smile still stamped deep into his flesh. "Where's Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson?"

John slammed and locked the door then took off running, Sherlock's hand closing around his wrist to pull him along as they dashed through the house to the yard out back. There was a greenbelt not far. Over the fence and out past a field of grass there were trees to hide amongst if they could just get there. Sherlock pulled John to run, his longer strides nearly tripping John as they powered towards the fence. It would take a miracle to clear but John felt sure he could fly if he needed to.

"Jesus Christ, look at him!" someone shouted, a soldier, one of many set to keep them from getting away.

John felt the bullet long before he heard the gunshot. So much for the speed of sound. He stumbled as it tore through his leg, thrown down to the ground by his own weight as Sherlock's hand fell from his grasp. It hurt-- _god_ he'd forgotten what it felt like to be shot. It hurt a hell of a lot but he still stumbled to stand, not willing to give up.

They were surrounded. Sherlock had stopped running, hands held up in surrender as he stood near John, guarding him as the soldiers pulled in closer, thinking better of shooting at their diseased target having missed him once already. "Pressure, John," Sherlock said but John wasn't listening. Damn his leg, they needed to go! He wouldn't allow them to just give up without a fight. This wasn't happening. This wasn't allowed to happen after everything they'd done!

The Colonel wasn't smiling anymore as he kept cautiously back, his face contorted into a look of disgust and curiosity as he eyed Sherlock standing before him.

"Test me," Sherlock said before anyone could take another step closer. "I know you have it. I'll do it myself." He took a deep breath, the exhale shaky. "These are scars. I'm not sick. I survived. I'm not a danger to you. Just test me."

"Sherlock Holmes?" the Colonel asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Don't look much like you picture these days, do you?"

" _Test me!_ "

John flinched at his shout but felt strengthened by it. This wasn't the end. Sherlock would pass and they'd let him live and they'd think of something to get away and go back to just living their lives. He pressed his hand over the bullet wound, starting to feel light headed. He was losing quite a bit of blood but that was the least of his concerns. He watched the soldier lay the testing device and a lancer on the ground and held his breath as Sherlock knelt down to pick it up, almost ready to see the splatter of brains in the instant he pulled away. The soldiers were smarter than that, he recalled. They'd wait to let Sherlock swing instead before risking exposure to infected blood at this range.

Sherlock straightened up with the tools in each hand, pricking his thumb without hesitation before pressing the blood to the reader. It would only take a second. Just a few heartbeats between now and the future where everything was going to be okay.

Red. Bright, brilliant, unmistakable red. 

Sherlock hung his head and let the testing device fall from his hands to the ground while John's eyes locked on to the drip of blood from his thumb, shock and his own blood loss driving his senses into cold and effortless darkness.


	15. Epilogue

"Good morning, John," Mycroft said.

John could not think of a voice he wanted to hear less. His eyes were not even yet open and still the lights above burned against them through the shield of his eyelids, painted red with purple veins as he delayed their final peel. "Where am I?" he asked, listening to the familiar sounds of a hospital and feeling the particular pinch of a needle in his arm.

He could feel Mycroft smoothing out the wrinkles in his blankets--that or petting the cotton which seemed far less likely from the particular man. "The Ark Project," he said, the same bored tone he usually used when relating the obvious giving life to the simple words. "Welcome home."

"Where's Sherlock?"

Mycroft's tongue ticked against his teeth as he took a quick breath. "I owe you a debt of gratitude, John. You did very well to--"

"Enough." John swallowed, still not willing to open his eyes in case he needed to clamp them shut against the well of tears he already felt stinging at the corners. He didn't like the other man dancing around his questions. Not of this nature. "Where is he?"

There was a short pause then a sigh, neither of which filled John with hope. "He's helping the cause," Mycroft said.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes."

"Can I see him?"

"You will."

John tried not to let his optimism and short spring of joy overpower his better judgement. He was dealing with the British Government who had far more concern for the British people than for his brother. Alive wasn't a promise of anything. Coma patients were alive. Machines could act in place of vital organs since removed.

He opened his eyes. It was indeed a hospital room but far smaller than anything he'd expected. The walls were mostly windows looking out into the hallway and other surgical areas. All were empty. It seemed eerily quiet, really, even for a research center. No nurses. No doctors. John sat up slowly in his bed, eying the odd arrangement of ports drilled into his arms that were no longer hooked into drips. He knew better than to simply pull them out but their unnecessary presence disturbed him.

Mycroft pushed a wheelchair close to the bed, offering his hand for stability in an uncharacteristic show of concern. "Come with me, John," he said, and John took his offered hand to push himself up and out of the sturdy cot, leg protesting to the motion but not enough to stop John from seating himself in the chair with little more than a groan. And if the hand had been a surprise, the presence of him pushing the chair was flooring. John almost put the breaks on to protest his ableness but found the humbling gesture perhaps worth a small sting to his own pride.

The halls were deadly silent. John didn't like it at all. The Ark project was made to hold hundreds of Britain's best and brightest. Where the hell were they all?

"It was the jeep, in case you were wondering," Mycroft said as he pushed them down past white walls and tempered windows. "It was recognized as military grade and they ran the plates. I'd had the foresight of changing the registration to you and Sherlock should such an opportunity arise. That on top of the blood sample made for an ironclad identification. One John Hamish Watson found alive after all this time. I shouldn't need to relate to you how pleased I was to receive such news. I've been wanting to speak to you for some time now."

John shook his head, smirking slightly at the irony in their lifeline being nothing more than a lit fuse. "Of course you knew we wouldn't abandon the thing. You're Mycroft Holmes and you know everything."

"Not everything. I didn't know he'd survived."

John nodded slowly, his throat filling with the impossible to swallow lump of the unasked. He wanted to know what happened after he passed out. He wanted to know how long he'd been unconscious. He wanted to hear it all from Sherlock, though. He granted himself the peace from silence as he held his tongue and waited. More empty halls. More guestless rooms. It really shouldn't have been like this.

The last door they came to looked more to John like a metal vault than an entrance. It required a pass-code and a retina scan and John sat quietly while Mycroft gained them priority access to the inside. The doors parted on less of a complex and more of a mausoleum, though. Perhaps 'morgue' was the most fitting word. Row after row of lockers lined the walls and aisles of the room with enough blinking lights and dials to impress any sci-fi set designer. Here he saw people for once, standing behind more glass walls, moving in a chorus of busy work like bees over comb with many jobs to do. There were doctor's there and technicians given the stations John could identify from his low seat in the chair.

"What is this?' John asked, but the question remained unanswered. Instead, Mycroft pushed him towards a locker that, unlike the others, extended into the walled off section where people walked around with purpose. There was a plaque above it, set beside heart-rate monitors and other gradients of health. _Sherlock Holmes_ , it read, and John followed the lines of tubing behind the window that funneled blood and other fluids into and out of the body stored within. 

John felt his face go red with rage. "You said-"

"He's sleeping, John. They all are." Mycroft turned his chair to face the rest of the room, the vastness of the lockers hard to comprehend as the aisles seemed to go on and on. "Artists, musicians, mathematicians, philosophers. At least two of everything right down to master tradesmen. They're sleeping, John. If there is one thing my brother has taught me it is that stagnation can drive the gifted to madness. Locking them away would stagnate their genius but giving them lives outside these protective walls would ensure the essence of humanity was forever maintained. Reality is perception and they all perceive themselves to be living in the world before this happened. In a world where it never will. They will experience life, learn and create. This is the heart of the Ark project, John. The preservation of the heart of the human race, not just their bodies."

John felt his chin go slack as he considered the many lives locked away in front of him. "So they're all dreaming?" he asked.

Mycroft tilted his head, his face only half agreeing with John's wording. "Mass hallucination would perhaps make as much sense. They're dreaming the _same dream_ , as controlled by our network. Plenty of filler shadows to flesh out the world but there you have it."

"And Sherlock's...," John swallowed, licking his lips. "Sherlock's part of that dream?"

"Solving crimes with DI. Lestrade last I checked." Mycroft smiled faintly, though there was still a sadness behind his eyes that John trusted above all else. "He doesn't feel it, John," he said. "And we are making progress. I did speak to him at length before we checked him in. He asked only that you be allowed to sleep beside him. And that I give you this." Mycroft turned and pulled open the locker beside Sherlock's, digging through the empty container to produce a singular item: a teddy bear. "I don't need to tell you how obnoxious it was to try and obtain it."

John knew his eyes were red and that his face was a maroon pucker but it wasn't much worth the effort to try and hide the meaning it held for him. Sherlock had been aware when he was brought to the Ark. He'd talked and people had listened. He knew what was going on. And he was waiting. John took the bear from Mycroft and wiped his nose on the back of his hand as he smiled. He pressed his palm to the metal door below the solitary name plaque. "Where's my card, you tit?" he asked, laughing slightly as his own response.

Mycroft didn't pretend to understand and stood quietly back, the locker door still open to the compartment beside his brother. "He's alone in that world, John. I think it's time you joined him."

John nodded, bear clutched to his chest as he let his fingers trail down the cold metal door.

\---

John dreamed of soldiers, of running, of chaos. He dreamed of a fire burning through his leg and awoke in a cold sweat. Confused. Disoriented. Looking for something else.

He walked with a limp they all agreed shouldn't be there. _They_. Tremors and trust issues, reading notes upside-down. What did 'they' know? Something wasn't right. He didn't belong here. This wasn't the way life was suppose to be.

And then, where he last expected it--

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

\--limp gone, tremor forgotten, he found a cure named Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a re-imagining of Mark Twain's _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. I hope you enjoyed it  <3


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